


The Labors of John Watson

by pt_tucker



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alpha John, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Big Brother Mycroft, Dom Greg Lestrade, Dom John Watson, Dom Mycroft, Dom/Sub universe, Dom/sub, Dubious Consent, John's POV, M/M, Marriage Proposal, Omega Sherlock, Protective Mycroft, Sub Sherlock Holmes
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-06-05
Updated: 2015-12-20
Packaged: 2018-04-03 00:04:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 39,515
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4078969
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pt_tucker/pseuds/pt_tucker
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"I, John Hamish Watson, would like to formally request permission from the Head of the Holmes family to marry a Submissive under your protection by the name of Sherlock Holmes."</p>
<p>"No."</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> So I'm gonna come right out and say that this fic has been a nightmare. I started out thinking I wanted A/B/O but then thought it'd make more sense with Dom/Sub but then realized certain plot points require A/B/O and then by that time other plot points required Dom/Sub ... Let's just say this fic has had more than one identity crisis. 
> 
> I decided to go with _both_ AU types. There are probably some things in here that are obviously inspired by the one thousand and one other AUs of the same type, especially any that have both AUs. 
> 
> First chapter is un-beta'd.  
>   
> 

John checked the time again, noting that only three minutes had passed since he’d last checked it, though it had been forty-seven since he’d first sat down in the office. He resisted the urge to get up and demand to know if Mycroft was planning on seeing him any time today. John had even taken the initiative to schedule an appointment, nevermind that Mycroft had never shown him the same courtesy in all the years they’d known each other. The least the man could do was bloody well make an appearance.

Instead of voicing his annoyance, he smoothed down his suit for what felt like the hundredth time. While any other day he might have already left in a huff, today was not the day to risk alienating Mycroft Holmes. A big, dopey grin slipped onto his face at that thought. He could hardly believe he was actually doing this! He couldn’t wait to get home and tell Sherlock. Or, at least, stand there and let Sherlock read the entire event from his person.

Mycroft naturally chose that moment to finally grace him with his presence. John quickly wiped the look from his face. This was a serious matter, after all. So serious. 

His lips twitched.

“Hello, John. Do forgive my late arrival,” Mycroft said, as he walked to his desk. Sitting down, he continued, “A problem arose that required my attention.”

“Not a problem. It’s fine. _Completely_ fine. I know you’re a busy man and I’m…fine with that,” John said, ending rather awkwardly. 

If he was honest with himself, he was perhaps just a _tad_ nervous about this meeting. He cleared his throat and gave the other man an uncomfortable smile.

Mycroft’s brows drew together and he scanned John in much the same manner as Sherlock did when the detective thought he might have been drugged by someone other than him. Which occurred far more often than John preferred to think about. John didn’t voice how much Mycroft looked like his brother right then, no matter how tempting it was. He wasn’t entirely certain of how he’d take it. 

Sherlock, he knew, would have sulked on the sofa for a week at the comparison. 

His expression clearing, Mycroft gave him a polite smile that didn’t reach his eyes, though John imagined he was a good enough actor to force it to if he’d wanted. He wondered if that meant Mycroft felt he could be honest with him, or if he just thought he wasn’t worth the effort. 

“How refreshing to speak with someone that understands the constraints caused by my … position.”

The “unlike others we could name” went unspoken, but was still loud enough that John felt safe replying to it anyway.

“Well, one of us has to be the understanding one. We wouldn’t be able to investigate half the cases we do if no one was around to smooth ruffled feathers.” 

Mycroft “hmmed.” 

John had the distinct impression that the other Alpha was thinking of how he’d simply call up whoever was standing in Sherlock’s way and kindly explain to them that they _would_ be allowing his brother to flounce around deducing things to his heart’s content, thank you very much.

“I’ve come to ask you something. Something important,” John said, deciding that enough pleasantries had been seen to to satisfy Mycroft’s Traditionalist’s views of civility.

John kept up the polite smile, though. He was a little frightened of what might happen if he allowed it to drop. John had some sort of mad hope that maybe if he kept up the pretense, Mycroft might not remember that he was the same bloke who’d once chinned him and gotten away with it. Not that John hadn’t deserved to get away with it. Mycroft had told Sherlock he should have just married him off to some rich politician when he’d come of age and been done with it. Actually, John probably should have chinned him twice.

In his defense, Mycroft had sincerely apologized to Sherlock later that week, something which John hadn’t thought the man physically capable of – surely he’d get some sort of terrible bowel movement if he even tried to form the words, “I’m sorry.”

Mycroft had then cornered John and told him if he ever laid hands on his person again, he’d make him disappear so thoroughly there’d be no record of him ever existing in the first place. John had told him to fuck off.

Probably not his best idea, now that he was sitting in front of the man about to ask him if he liked him enough to allow him to marry his brother.

“Mycroft. Sir,” Mycroft frowned. John hurriedly switched back, “ _Mycroft,_ I, John Hamish Watson, would like to formally request permission from the Head of the Holmes family to marry a Submissive under your protection by the name of Sherlock Holmes.” The words were stiff and official-sounding, having been memorized at the same time his parents had given him “The Talk.” 

“The Talk” being that while other Doms were fine so long as they were of age, Subs were off limits without his or her Head’s permission beforehand, lest John wanted to be charged with sub-rape. Seeing how Traditionalist views on sex and marriage were still going strong in the twenty-first century, permission was rarely given to anyone that wasn’t already engaged. Sometimes not even then.

Considering that Sub/Sub sex was considered something of a taboo by most Traditionalists, a group which made up over seventy-percent of the population, there were many Subs that came to the honeymoon as nothing more than curious. Well, unless they were able to sneak around behind their family’s back. Or, really, really determined. The amount of paperwork required to circumvent the Head of Family’s approval, for every single sex partner, was said to take months to get through. Longer if you were “lucky” enough to get one of the many Tradtionalists that were bound to populate the Office of Submissive Affairs.

All of it was said to be for the benefit of the Sub, of course.

John approved of the general principle of the system, if not the way it was set-up. Too many Subs throughout history had been raped while zoned by piece of shit Doms. Too many people had claimed the Sub had agreed to it – as if a Sub in sub-zone was even aware they were _allowed_ to say no. Add marriage into the mix and you had the potential for a life-long disaster for some poor bastard. 

Making certain people weren’t in the zone before allowing something potentially terrible to happen to them was ok in John’s book. It’s just the fact that this responsibility had fallen to other non-Subs is what irked him more than a little. 

Non-Subs like Mycroft Holmes, who was looking at John as if he’d just asked him if he’d like to put on some jeans and head down to the local pub.

“No.”

“Excuse me? Could you repeat that?” John said, not quite believing his ears.

Mycroft’s lips thinned, causing John to feel like a particularly annoying yapping dog.

“I said ‘no.’ You do not have my permission.”

The words were cold. Final. John was no longer sitting across from the man he’d known for years - the doting, albeit terrifying, older brother who would allow entire governments to collapse before allowing anything to happen to Sherlock. Now he was sitting across from Mycroft Holmes, the Ice Man, the British Government, who for whatever reason didn’t approve of John. At all, if his expression was anything to go by.

John wondered if it was too late to apologize for punching him. 

“But…Why?” John asked, his voice rising on the last word. He _loved_ Sherlock. Mycroft could see that. The man bloody well saw everything else. 

“It is my understanding that as Head of Family I’m not required to give you a reason.” John spluttered and Mycroft continued before he could _really_ start protesting. “However, if you truly desire to know, it is because it is my duty to find Sherlock a husband that can properly take care of him. As it stands, you can barely pay your share of the rent.”

“Because I’m with Sherlock!” John shouted. He knew a BS excuse when he heard it. “I don’t have time to hold down a regular job, because I’m too busy keeping _your_ brother happy and out of trouble and you bloody well know it!” 

John just barely reeled himself back in time before he attempted to zone Mycroft. He wasn’t certain who’d win that particular battle but the possibility of blood ending up on the walls either way was too high for comfort. Things never turned out well when two people with strikingly similar Control Levels decided to battle wills.

Mycroft’s eyebrows rose in response to his outburst. John heard the door opening behind him and turned to find Anthea glaring at him. Taking the hint that he was about to get shot, John continued in a quieter tone, “So … what? You’re denying me because I don’t pay both of our rents, is that it? Buy his clothing? Give cash to his homeless network?”

Mycroft waved Anthea away. She left with one last scowl in John’s direction.

“Don’t be absurd. I am more than happy to take care of Sherlock’s current financial needs,” Mycroft said, sounding mildly insulted. Yes, definitely the doting big brother, John thought with a snort. “However, there will come a time when I am no longer around to perform this duty. I would like to believe that my brother is in capable hands when that day comes.”

There was silence after that, and John felt a sense of absolute calmness come over him. It was the same feeling he got when faced with crazed bombers and Sherlock’s temper tantrums. Right, if that’s the way Mycroft wanted to play it, then that’s how Mycroft would lose.

Standing up, John held out a hand towards the other Dom. Mycroft blinked at it, before reaching over his desk to shake.

John nodded. “Thank you for seeing me today.”

“You’re quite welcome,” Mycroft returned. There was an air of curiosity about him, as if John was a pet that had just done an unexpected trick.

John started walking towards the door. He was half way to it when he turned around and said, “I will be back.”

After a pause, Mycroft inclined his head. “I look forward to it.” 

Mycroft’s gaze held a challenge. John returned it with a look of his own. He _would_ get Mycroft’s permission, and he _would_ marry Sherlock and spend the rest of his life showing the man just how much he loved him. John knew this was going to happen. He wouldn’t be able to live with anything less.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'd love to hear what you think! Concrit is welcome. :)


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was beta'd by the lovely Megabat! Thanks once again for your hard work! ❤

Despite his determination, John couldn’t help but feel a trickle of embarrassment creep up his spine as he made his way into 221B. He _would_ marry Sherlock - but not today. Today he came home a failure with his planned surprise ruined.

He paused half-way up the stairs, wondering if it was too late to turn around and head to a pub. It’d be a bit awkward sitting there in his nice suit, and he feared the trouble it’d be to remove any alcohol stains that it might acquire, but it’d be worth it if he didn’t have to face Sherlock at that moment. Maybe he could look into staying at one of his friend’s until he could sneak back into the flat and erase all evidence of his disastrous meeting.

Just as he was turning to go, he heard Sherlock call out.

“John? Is that you? A bit of help, if you wouldn’t mind.”

John thought about continuing on out the door, but the last time Sherlock had asked him for “a bit of help,” he’d gone upstairs to find the man with his hand pressed down upon a pressure-activated _bomb_ he’d decided to make in their _kitchen._

When his absolute terror had been diffused along with the device, courtesy of Mycroft, John had spent his anger on twenty hard wallops to Sherlock’s bare bottom with a wooden paddle. When his flatmate’s behind had eventually returned to its usual paleness, John had pulled out the paddle and walloped him _again._ He’d not actually had any legal right to punish the Sub, seeing as he was neither a figure of authority nor part of Sherlock’s close family. Luckily neither Mycroft nor Greg had seemed to be bothered by his initiative and Sherlock certainly hadn’t filed a complaint.

Throughout it all, the irony had not been lost on John that the one time Sherlock had wanted to get his own phone, he’d instead been forced to sit there for over four hours with it just out of reach.

With that thought in mind, John decided his own embarrassment was worth not leaving Sherlock to fend for himself in case he truly he needed him. Even if the idiotic genius deserved whatever ill consequences his mad experiments brought about.

“Coming!” John called, sprinting up the stairs. If Sherlock was doing something dangerous, so help him-

Catching sight of the detective, John was pleased to note that he was calmly sitting in his chair staring at the wall, and that there appeared to be nothing in his immediate vicinity that might blow up Baker Street. There was, however, dozens of pieces of colored paper taped to said wall, all of them splattered with a suspicious red substance that John would bet ten-to-one was blood.

“Ah, John. Water, please. I’ve been absolutely parched for the past hour and thirty-seven minutes.”

John sighed. “And of course you couldn’t just get up and get it yourself?”

Ignoring his own complaints, John headed for the kitchen.

“Sorry, in the middle of an experiment. Watching how blood dries on different papers. Hope you don’t mind.” Glimpsing him through the opening, John could see that Sherlock said this without so much as glancing away from the wall.

“Why would I mind?” John muttered to himself, pulling out a glass from the cabinet. He gave it a careful inspection before filling it.

“I suppose someone’s alibi is relying on this?” John asked, bringing the water to Sherlock.

“No, just bored.”

John rolled his eyes and held out the glass. “Here you go.”

“Thank you, John,” Sherlock said, taking the drink. “I-”

Sherlock stopped, having finally turned to look at him.

“You went to visit Mycroft. You-” Sherlock’s eyes darted down to John’s shoes “-asked him if you could marry me?”

“Yes. I did.”

Sherlock stared at him.

“He said no, by the way.”

Sherlock continued to stare.

“Sherlock?”

John was just about to reach out and snap his fingers in front of Sherlock’s face when the other man seemed to come back to himself. He looked down at his water, his thumb sliding along the edge of the glass.

“It’s a bit permanent, isn’t it? _Marriage._ ”

“Yes.” John frowned. “Did you not want to? I know I didn’t ask you first. I thought-”

“You wanted to surprise me, _obviously_. I just…” Sherlock hesitated. “I wasn’t aware you’d want to … with me.”

John’s heart ached a little at that. Reaching forwards, he threaded his fingers through Sherlock’s curls and pulled their lips together. It was a chaste kiss, anything else would be inappropriate, but he hoped it conveyed his feelings well enough.

Pulling away, he looked into Sherlock’s eyes. “Of course I want to marry you. I said I was going to spend the rest of my life with you, didn’t I?”

Sherlock gave him a shy smile.

“If your bloody brother will let me, anyway,” John growled, removing his hands.

“You plan to ask again?” Sherlock had the audacity to sound surprised. John wondered if maybe he needed to bring home flowers or something in order for his words to properly sink into that thick skull of his.

“Yes, I am. I’ll ask him every bloody day for the next hundred years if I have to.”

“We’ll all be dead by then. A bit overenthusiastic, don’t you think?”

John rolled his eyes and bent down to peck Sherlock on the lips once more.

Sherlock smiled. “He really said no?” His voice carried a hint of amusement.

“Yes, he did. I thought you said your brother likes me?”

Sherlock snorted. “‘Likes’? A Dom willing to put up with me while at the same time unwilling to take advantage of our close connection? John, he _adores_ you. I wouldn’t be surprised to learn he’s made arrangements to conquer some foreign country and rename it in your honor.”

“He could bloody well show it then.” John moved towards his chair, sitting down across from Sherlock.

“He’s Mycroft,” Sherlock replied, shrugging. He seemed to remember that the water in his hand was for drinking and downed the glass in one go.

“You don’t seem terribly upset by his decision.”

“I’m certain he’ll come around. He didn’t have you exiled to Antarctica, after all.”

“Has he done that before?” John asked, not entirely certain he wanted to know the answer.

“Not recently.”

Sherlock picked up his nearby violin and bow. He began to play a few snippets of unrelated music, pausing in between each as if deciding on what should come next. Apparently his blood experiment wasn’t important now that he had John to relieve his boredom.

John was simultaneously touched and annoyed. He knew which of them was going to end up cleaning the mess on the wall.

John didn’t mention the fact that Mycroft believed him to be too poor to properly take care of his brother. Sherlock was a posh git who’d been spoiled his entire life. The last thing he wanted was to have _another_ conversation about the value of money with a man who wouldn’t accept payment for ninety-eight percent of the work he did if John didn’t make him.

He would just have to figure this out on his own and hope Sherlock didn’t notice.

=============================

Sherlock noticed.

“Did Mycroft comment on your financial situation?” Sherlock asked, watching John stash the money he’d just received from Mrs. Turner’s “married ones” into his wallet.

It’d been for examining their sick turtle. John had explained to them that a doctor _really_ wasn’t a veterinarian, but they’d said they’d pay him twenty quid to look it over, so he’d given it a go. He’d concluded that it was sick.

“What makes you think that?” John asked, if only to delay the inevitable.

“Besides the fact that you’ve been busying yourself with odd jobs throughout the past three days for insultingly meager amounts of cash?” Sherlock appeared to be seriously thinking about it. “I suppose the haggling with Mrs. Rumpstin over consulting fees was a bit of a tip-off.”

John scowled. “She wanted us to travel to Spain! I think that deserved more than a few pounds!”

“You called her an old biddy and a skinflint. A bit not good, John.” Sherlock gave him a stern look that was belied by the mirth in his eyes.

“She was!”

“You hoo! Hope I’m not interrupting, dearies. I brought you some biscuits.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Hudson.”

“You’re welcome. But remember, I’m your landlady, not your housekeeper.”

Both John and Sherlock smiled, catching each other’s eyes over the Omega’s head.

“John, Mr. Culver up the street said he could use some help painting his flat, if you still need the money.” As if just realizing Sherlock was in the room, Mrs. Hudson turned to him and then turned back to John, her hand over her mouth. “Oh dear. I wasn’t supposed to say that.”

John signed. “It’s alright, Mrs. Hudson. He already knows.”

“Of course,” Sherlock said, not looking up from where he was alternating between plucking at his violin and playing fragments of what John could only assume was his own creation, judging by how he kept replaying the same notes while changing the ending slightly each time.

He wasn’t writing anything down, though, so it could just be him messing around. As usual.

“Tell Mr. Culver I’ll be over Wednesday, if that’s fine with him.”

Sherlock frowned. “Don’t be ridiculous. I need you on Wednesday.”

“Thursday, then.”

“Thursday too.”

“Doing what?”

“I hacked into Mycroft’s files last night. Apparently a scientist by the name of Richard Thorston has been attempting to alter _Yersinia pestis_ into a more effective biological weapon. I’m curious as to how he thought he could make it even more awful. I’d like to take a look at his lab.”

“ _Yersin_ …” John mumbled to himself before his eyes widened in recognition. “Someone was trying to make a deadlier version of the Black Plague?”

“Oh my!” Mrs. Hudson’s hand went back over her mouth. She looked properly horrified. John felt much the same way.

“ _Bubonic_ Plague, John. You are a doctor, after all. Of course, it could be one of the other two. Won’t know until I examine the data.”

“No,” John said, pointing at Sherlock as if he was a misbehaving child. “We are not going to any area that might infect us with a disease that once killed a third of the human population.”

“Modern antibiotics-”

_“No.”_

Sherlock, grown man that he was, started to pout.

=============================

Three hours later found Sherlock still sulking on the sofa and refusing to look at John. John ignored him in turn. Try as he might, Sherlock was not going to make him feel guilty about putting his foot down this time.

Bloody _Y. Pestis_ Sure, they’d undoubtedly be wearing hazmat suits, but it was best not to tempt fate any more than they already did on a daily basis.

Rubbing his eyes, he checked over his blog entry once more before hitting “send.” Almost immediately, there was a flurry of comments under what he’d titled “The Exotic Deaths of Sherlock Holmes: Number 57.”

It was a running theme he’d decided on not long after Sherlock had had the _brilliant_ idea of jumping down into a lion’s cage at the zoo in order to grab an important piece of paper before it could blow away. Sherlock had pointed out that the lion was a) male, b) extremely well-fed, c) unused to acquiring its own food, and d) way over on the other side of the enclosure. As such, he’d reasoned his danger of attack had been extremely low. They’d still come back to their flat to find Mycroft calmly drinking tea in one of the chairs, a paddle waiting in his lap.

Sherlock had thrown his brother several acidic barbs about his weight, his receding hairline, his general disposition, and everything else in between, but had otherwise complied with Mycroft’s unspoken command by removing the clothing from his lower half and bracing himself against the wall. John had been about the leave when Sherlock had told him not to bother since his brother would be gone in a few minutes – he was far too lazy to swing more than a dozen times at most. John had been more of the opinion that Mycroft was far too done with Sherlock to bother, but he’d kept his comments to himself.

It had been the first time John had witnessed Mycroft mete out one of Sherlock’s punishments, though he’d known the man must have been doing so privately. Sherlock had told him as much when he’d informed John that Mycroft could be unbearably dull when it came to certain matters. Very Traditionalist. He’d sounded more bored than anything else, so John had taken it to be one of Sherlock’s usual complaints against his brother, rather than him trying to subtly alert John to an abusive Head who’d overstepped his legal right to punish a Sub family member.

Laziness or not, the Dom had barely applied any pressure, judging by the sound of the swats and the look of Sherlock’s bum afterwards. It was more like that of an erotic game than corporal punishment.

John almost groaned aloud as he recalled the way Sherlock’s cock had been jutting out through the slight gap at the bottom of his button-down shirt by the time Mycroft had finished. It had been small and thin, just barely standing out from Sherlock’s pubic hair. Nothing at all like the Alpha and Beta cocks John was used to seeing. And oh how he had wanted it.

He wondered if Sherlock liked pain with his pleasure or if it’d been the domination that had gotten him hard. Lots of Subs did. Supposedly. Not that John would know personally. He’d been with several other Doms who’d had a low enough Control Level to be compatible with his higher CL, but still none of them had been into the sort of games Doms played with their Subs.

John bit his lip. Games. With Sherlock. The idea was enough to drive him mad.

Sherlock peeked over his shoulder at him as if sensing his arousal. For all John knew he had. People didn’t typically notice the pheromones the different sexes gave off unless one of them was in heat, but people also didn’t typically read a person’s entire history in a single glance.

Sherlock smirked knowingly at John and went back to looking at the sofa. John rolled his eyes.

Glancing down at the comments section of his blog, John was surprised to note that he’d received over three dozen of them. He checked the time: it’d only been about ten minutes. He knew that by morning he’d have a couple thousand. John still couldn’t quite believe that people were that interested in what he had to say, even if it was all about his weird, unbelievable flatmate.

John felt a smile form as an idea came to him.

=============================

“You want to what?” Sherlock said, holding a piece of fabric up to the light.

They were at a triple homicide. An entire family murdered in their own home: two upstairs and one down. Probably a bit not good to be bringing up personal matters while standing under a room that contained two dead bodies while watching his mad flatmate flit about the third. John wondered at what point in his life with Sherlock he had stopped caring about such things. He did his best to ignore Sally’s judging eyes as she hovered about in the background.

“I said I’d like to write about us. If that’s ok with you.”

“You already write about me,” Sherlock said, walking a circle around a shoe. Off in his own little world, Sherlock continued in a quieter voice that John had to strain to hear, “Obvious. But why would he? Oh, of course. But that doesn’t make any sense. Unless…” He darted over to examine a potted plant.

“ _Us._ And this would be different.”

“Different how?”

“It’d be for profit.”

“I’ve been informed people don’t read _my_ blog. Therefore our increased popularity must be at least partially due to your attempts at what must pass as literature these days. We receive extra compensation from the increased number of cases this generates. Ergo, profit. Not that different after all.”

John sighed.

“Sherlock-”

“That’s it! Took me a bit longer than I’d anticipated, but I was being distracted.” Sherlock gave John a look. John gave him one right back. Turning towards Sally, Sherlock added, “It was the mother. More precisely, her mother.” He pointed towards the body.

Sally snorted in disbelief. “Her Mum would have to be at least fifty years old by now.”

Sherlock smiled his totally inappropriate but completely irresistible, ‘I just solved a case’ smile.

“I know. Quite spry for a woman of her age. Then again, she is a continuing Taekwondo instructor. To be expected, I suppose. Well, what are you waiting for? Or do I have to arrest your suspects for you as well?”

Sherlock turned towards John expectantly.

“You’re beautiful when you’re like this, you know?” John said, forgoing his usual exclamation of praise. He’d long since run out of original ones anyway.

Sherlock’s cheeks turned pink at the unexpected compliment. Behind him, Sally raised an eyebrow and John watched her gaze drop to Sherlock’s hands. He brushed aside the shame he felt when she didn’t find a ring. At least Greg wasn’t there to join in. Thankfully, the Detective Inspector was off at a meeting with some higher-up, or so Sally had informed them. Apparently a real posh git who acted like he owned the world. John hoped he never met the man. Dealing with Mycroft on a regular basis was bad enough.

“Yes, well.” Sherlock cleared his throat as he ran a hand through black curls. “I think Sergeant Donovan can take it from here.” He scurried out the door before John could say anything else.

“I didn’t think I’d ever see the freak speechless.”

“He’s not a freak,” John snapped back, his fond amusement at Sherlock’s embarrassment quickly evaporating. One of these days he was going to zone Sally, and he wasn’t going to regret it.

Sally just raised her hands in the universal ‘I surrender,’ apparently not feeling the need to get into a row now that she’d had her fun at Sherlock’s expense. John wondered if he shouldn’t have said anything in front of others. Then John remembered how _surprised_ Sherlock had been when he’d realized John _actually wanted_ to marry him and wasn’t just blowing smoke out of his arse.

John wondered who’d hurt Sherlock in the past for such a reaction.

Fuck it. He wasn’t going to hide anything from anyone. He wanted the whole world to know he loved Sherlock – totally inappropriate smiles at crime scenes and all.

John moved to go find his detective when Sally spoke up.

“You serious? About wanting to write a book?”

John paused to look at her. She shrugged.

“I’d read that. You should include more of the failures, though. Spice things up a bit. And something about his punishments too.”

“I’m not going to humiliate him.”

“Since when is punishing a Sub humiliating them?”

John pressed his lips together but couldn’t disagree. Even someone like Sherlock Holmes, who made it a point to act like the Doms around him were nothing more than nuisances sent there specifically to plague him, wouldn’t be shamed by having his bottom smacked by the appropriate person for a valid reason. People like Sally might enjoy the thought far more than they should, but Sherlock wouldn’t be seen as “less” in anyone’s eyes. If anything made Sherlock “less” to these people, it was the assumption that he was purposefully trying to come off as a Dom.

As if reading his thoughts, Sally added, “It might make people like him more. Some of the things you allow him to get away with-”

“I’m not his Dom,” John cut in.

“Might as well be. And we all know it’s only a matter of time before it’s official.”

“Is that all?” John asked.

“Just think about it. It’d be a favor to Lestrade. And his Head, if the f- … if Sherlock even has one.”

“Right.”

John turned and walked out the door. Still, even as he got away from the Beta, he couldn’t help but see the logic of her words. Part of the reason people had such a problem with Sherlock was that they thought he got away with everything. If it was known that he was being punished but he just didn’t care, it’d make him more of an oddity but less of an annoying upstart Sub who’d never been taught his place. The latter made Mycroft, his Head of Family, and Greg, an authoritative figure that routinely dealt with him, look as if they weren’t doing their jobs.

John only got a pass because he’d never let it be officially known that he had permission to punish Sherlock, albeit by lack of complaint rather than appointment. Once they were married, it’d be _his_ fault if Sherlock strayed from the straight and narrow. Because clearly a 38-year-old man wasn’t capable of making his own decisions without someone else being responsible for him. As if he were a _child._

John clenched his fists and decided right then and there that if anyone said anything about him being a piss-poor Dom, he’d zone the bastard. He didn’t like to make it known, but he was probably of a higher zone-ability than most of the people he encountered on a daily basis. Partially the army’s doing. He’d been good at zoning people before he’d joined, as most people with high CLs were, and his time in the service had only trained him how do it more effectively.

Walking out into the street, John looked around. Sherlock had already left him. He sighed. Luckily he’d gotten good at finding a cab in the middle of nowhere.

=============================

“Thanks for leaving me in the middle of bloody- Sherlock?” John said as he opened the door and saw that the other wasn’t on the sofa as he’d assumed he would be.

He strained his ears but there was nothing indicating Sherlock was even in the flat. Just to be certain, he took a look around anyway. A feeling of unease started to form in his stomach when his search turned up empty.

His pocket started vibrating, and John pulled his mobile out to see ‘Armadillidium vulgare’ on the caller ID. He wondered when Sherlock had gotten a hold of his phone.

“John Watson speaking.”

“Mycroft is a despicable waste of space, barely worth the air he expels from his sugar-hardened lungs. We should elope.”

John blinked.

“I take it you went to see your brother?” John asked, carefully skating around the second part of Sherlock’s rant. Because Sherlock would do it if John gave even the slightest hint that eloping was a viable option, whether or not John actually _agreed_ to it. Sherlock would just drug his tea (again) and John would wake up in Tahiti with a wedding ring on his finger and a passport in his pocket under the false name of Martin Freeman.

“Obviously.”

“And he still won’t allow us to marry?”

_“No,”_ Sherlock all but hissed, “He says compliments of physical beauty are hardly a valid reason for marriage.”

John bit his lip to keep from laughing. He could hear the pout in Sherlock’s voice underneath the rage.

“So you stole his phone in revenge?” John asked, the strange name on the caller ID making more sense. Sherlock, for whatever reason, never changed his own name when it came to John’s contact list but he was more than happy to change everyone else’s.

“Yes. Perhaps I’ll use it to start a war somewhere. Quickly John, pick a country. We haven’t much time before he disconnects this device.”

“I’d rather not.”

Sherlock sighed into the speaker, as if John was too dull to even warrant a verbal response.

“Where are you?”

“On my way.”

“I’ll order us dinner. In the mood for anything in particular?”

The other end was silent.

“Sherlock?”

“We should have phone sex,” Sherlock said. The determination in his voice gave the impression he’d just decided on something life-changing. John knew otherwise.

“Mycroft is listening to us, isn’t he?”

“…97.2 percent probability. Multiple ways to access to the line in case of theft. Built in safe-guard. You get the general gist of it I’m certain.”

John rubbed at his eyes. He was planning on marrying a mad man.

“I’m not having phone sex with you just so you can get back at your brother.”

“Why not?”

There were so many different ways John could answer that. Instead, he replied, “I’m ordering pizza,” and hung up on Sherlock’s spluttered, “John!”

John glanced down at the ‘Armadillidium vulgare’ listed in his contacts. Curious, he flipped to his search app and googled the term. His lips twitched as images popped up and he finally got the joke.

He was planning on marrying a mad man.

It was going to be brilliant.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> LMK what you thought! Concrit welcome. :)


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another chapter! Once again edited by the lovely Megabat! Thanks again, my dear!  
>   
> 

The cursor flickered at him as John paused in his typing for the first time in hours. Should he mention how much he’d wanted to rip Sherlock’s purple shirt off him the first time he’d seen it, or was that too much? Molly had recommended he add a bit of “flavor” that readers didn’t get the chance to see in his blog - entice people to buy his book rather than just read for free online and all that - but he’d be damned if he was going to write a sappy romance. Sherlock was already having far too much fun at his expense.

John glanced back at the other man. Sherlock was wrapped up in his sheet, having apparently decided clothing was too dull for the day, and was currently staring up at the ceiling from his position on the sofa, silent and still. He’d been that way since before John had started writing, and if he didn’t move in the next hour John was going to rouse him to take a piss, if nothing else. The only thing even indicating Sherlock was still alive was his toes flexing against the sofa arm every so often.

John turned back towards his writing. The cursor blinked at him. His gaze drifted down towards the word counter in the corner.

Over forty thousand. He supposed that would have to do.

“Right,” John said to himself, glancing towards the clock. Almost time.

To Sherlock, he added, “I’m going to see Mycroft.”

No response.

Just as well. While the continuous exotic gifts Mycroft had been sending for the past two months had gradually mellowed Sherlock’s rage over his withheld permission, the topic of his brother still had the potential to put him in a terrible sulk.

John went to his room and slipped on his one good suit. It felt a bit pretentious, his moment having already passed, but Mycroft was a pretentious sort of man, so he figured it couldn’t hurt.

Slipping out the building’s door, John raised an arm to hail a cab. A black car pulled up instead.

“Of course,” John muttered, rolling his eyes as he pulled on the door handle.

“Hello, John. So nice to see you again,” Mycroft said, giving him his politician smile from inside the car.

“Mycroft.” John nodded once in greeting as he moved to sit across from the Head of the Holmes Family once more. “Couldn’t wait to see me?”

“Not quite. I’m afraid I have an … engagement scheduled for two o’clock. I was hoping to save some time by coming to you.”

“So you waited out here instead of knocking on the door?”

Mycroft grimaced. “It’s best that I stay away from Sherlock for a while.” Almost as an afterthought, he added, “He’s always had something of a temper.”

John’s lips twitched.

“Well, if you’re looking for sympathy from me, I’m all out.”

“Yes, I thought that might be the case,” Mycroft said, sizing him up like one might an opponent in the ring. It was a little flattering. John doubted many people could make Mycroft Holmes take their measure. At least not seriously.

“I assume you have something to ask me?”

Mycroft’s voice had shifted away from pleasant to the same ice John had heard the first time he’d asked. He supposed there was no point in even bothering, but he’d come this far and wasn’t a man to back down lightly.

“I do, yes. First, I wanted to show you this,” John said, pulling out a piece of paper from his suit pocket and handing it to Mycroft.

Mycroft barely glanced at it. “Ah, yes. The advance for your new book, _The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes._ ‘A completely revised account of my life with detective Sherlock Holmes, including unpublished cases and quirks.’ Sounds absolutely _spellbinding._ I look forward to reading it.”

John wondered if it’d be worth the exile to punch Mycroft again. There were penguins in Antarctica, weren’t there?

“Yes, well, as you can see, I’ve figured out a way to earn a decent wage while at the same time making certain your brother doesn’t contract any deadly diseases.”

Mycroft frowned, and John continued on before he could ask what he meant. If he didn’t know that Sherlock had broken into his computer, John wasn’t going to be the one to tell him.

“Should be any day now. I’ve already got over forty thousand words.”

Mycroft hmmed.

“That said,” John took a calming breath, “I, John Hamish Watson, would like to formally request permission from the Head of the Holmes family to marry a Submissive under your protection by the name of Sherlock Holmes.”

Mycroft paused a moment, as if actually thinking about it, before –

“No.”

John gritted his teeth to stop himself from shouting. It wasn’t any less enraging just because he’d seen it coming.

“And _why_ don’t I have your permission?”

Mycroft gave him a very put-upon sigh, as if John was the one causing the trouble.

“While I applaud your efforts to fulfill Sherlock’s future financial needs, I’m certain you realize that there are other things which would require your care if you were to engage in a relationship with my brother. If I may be blunt-”

“Please do,” John interrupted.

Mycroft pursed his lips in annoyance. “I don’t believe you are up to the task.”

“And what task was that again?”

“Why, children, of course.”

_Children_. Bloody hell.

“If you’ll excuse me, I need to continue onto my appointment.” Mycroft indicated the door.

“And how the hell am I supposed to show I’ll be a good parent or whatever it is you want from me? Just pick one up off the street, shall I?”

“I’m certain you’ll think of something,” Mycroft answered.

John pushed out of the car in a blaze of fury, Mycroft’s mocking smile in his mind’s eye.

Sherlock was still curled up on the sofa when he stormed into the flat, not that John had really been expecting him to have moved in the short time he’d been gone. His eyes travelled towards Sherlock’s stomach, wondering what he’d look like heavy with his children. The mental image of Sherlock attempting to hop over a fence while carrying a second life form around his middle was both amusing and horrifying. They’d have to have a serious talk about personal safety when it happened.

John glanced down at himself. _Both_ of their safeties. He couldn’t go getting himself blown up in darkened pools if he had a child. Someone had to take care of it. Goodness knows Sherlock would be rubbish at making sure the little one slept and ate and all of the things normal human beings that weren’t Sherlock Holmes actually did.

John winced. He was already something of a caretaker to his flatmate, grown man that he was, and he couldn’t imagine how a child would fit into that mix. A _baby_. Why hadn’t he ever thought of babies before now? They were _Alpha_ and _Omega._ How bloody _stupid_ of him. John wasn’t certain if he was more angry at Mycroft or himself.

Sherlock’s toes flexed against the sofa again, pulling him away from his thoughts. John smiled and walked over to lift his legs up. He slid underneath them, resting Sherlock’s feet in his lap. The emotions slowly drifted away as he massaged Sherlock’s soles. The simple act of touching the Omega was soothing in a way he wouldn’t have thought possible if he’d not been experiencing it right at that moment. John supposed it must really be true love.

Or a foot fetish.

Possibly both.

=====================================

John was scanning through an online thesaurus when Sherlock finally came back to his body a couple of hours later. He realized, belatedly, that Mycroft’s talk of children had driven the thought to “wake” Sherlock completely out of his mind. As far as he could tell, he’d not soiled himself, so John supposed there was no harm.

Then John thought of changing nappies and decided right then that that was going to be Sherlock’s job. If the Omega could hoist himself into a questionably stained rubbish bin without a moment’s pause, he could be the one to handle the poop.

Sherlock wiggled his toes, a confused frown gracing his face. John bit his lip and went back to his thesaurus before he did something unmanly, like giggling.

“Thank you, John,” Sherlock said after a moment. His voice was slow and uncertain, as if he didn’t know if that was appropriate response or not.

Finding the word he needed, John started typing again.

“Judging by the fact your stabbing at the keyboard is an even more pathetic attempt at typing than usual-” John paused in his writing, allowing his annoyance to wash over and through him. “-and that you’ve recently changed your clothes, I take it you visited my brother again? What was his excuse this time? Not enough money in being a novelist?”

Trying to sound casual, John answered, “He might have mentioned something about me not being a good potential father of your children.”

“Hmm. Yes, of course.”

John glared over the top of his computer. “‘Yes, of course?’”

Sherlock waved at him. “It’s obvious you’re not a family man, despite your overwhelming desire to have one.”

“‘Obvious?’”

“Must you repeat everything I say?”

“I like children,” John said, looking around the room incredulously. What in the world had given Sherlock the idea otherwise?

“No, you like the _idea_ of children. Everyone does. Well, practically everyone. Mycroft in particular despises the mere mention of them. Great way to avoid him at family reunions. Sit at the children’s table.”

John wondered if Sherlock was even talking to him anymore or if he’d gone off on one of his little monologues.

Trying to get the conversation back onto topic, he admitted, “Just now I was imagining what our life would be like with children.” He decided it probably wasn’t the best time to mention Sherlock had been volunteered for future poop duty.

Sherlock lifted himself up to properly look at him. He threw himself back down with a snort.

“You were imagining what I’d look like waddling around like a fat penguin.”

Well, that wasn’t necessarily a lie.

“Yes, well, I think you’d be a beautiful mother,” John said, because that wasn’t a lie either.

Sherlock turned his face towards the sofa, but John could still make out the pinking of his cheeks.

“Just beautiful?” Sherlock asked with false nonchalance.

“And sexy,” John added. “I’d want to have sex with you every day.”

Now Sherlock’s cheeks were definitely red.

Sherlock cleared his throat. “Yes, well, you are an Alpha. Desire to see your seed in someone and all that.”

“Just you,” John said.

“Sentiment,” Sherlock responded.

“Sentiment,” John agreed.

=====================================

“What about Melanie?” John asked.

He’d been trying out various names throughout the past few days in an attempt to show Sherlock that he did want a _baby_ and not just some proof of his virility or whatever nonsense the other had gotten into his head. John hoped that if they could agree on a name for their future offspring, he or she would no longer seem like such an idealistic daydream of John’s and instead be a viable option for their future. So far his plan hadn’t been going that well.

“Dull,” Sherlock responded, just has he had for the last hundred or so names John had given him.

John watched him scroll on to a new page in the research he was reading on his laptop. Sherlock had managed to convince Mycroft to allow him to view Thorston’s research on _Y. Pestis,_ albeit from a safe distance away from the actual bacteria. And by “convince” John meant Sherlock had demanded and Mycroft had caved immediately, just like the weak-willed, doting big brother he tried to pretend he wasn’t. Mycroft hadn’t even reprimanded Sherlock when he’d offhandedly told Mycroft he’d hacked into his files. He’d just sighed.

John gave it another week of Sherlock pouting before Mycroft set up a secret facility somewhere filled with the highest paid, most classified experts in the world so that Sherlock could play with the bacteria under the safest possible conditions.

John frowned as a thought came to him. A baby would mean they’d have to have a separate room for Sherlock’s experiments – no more playing mad scientist at the kitchen table. The idea of leaving 221B, his _home,_ made something in him ache, but needs must. Even if the flat had been designed with a family in mind, it was best to have a place with enough room for Sherlock to be Sherlock.

John glanced back out into the living room, which had just a short while ago been covered in blood splattered papers. Almost every surface housed something dangerous: towers of books on the edge of the desk, knives on the coffee table, exposed wiring leading from the socket to the telly from when Sherlock had experimented with it, even a sword hanging precariously from its mounting on the wall after having been partially dislodged when Sherlock had ducked a shoe a client had thrown at him. John knew it was just waiting for the right moment to fall down and kill someone.

They were in no way prepared for this.

Still, their home, wherever it may be, could be child-proofed after he’d actually gotten Sherlock ‘with child,’ so instead John turned his mind back to the naming.

“How about Richard?”

Sherlock snapped his gaze towards him. “If you think I’m naming a baby after my brother, you’ve lost more brain cells than you could afford to be without.”

John let that one pass, though he’d have to have a talk to Sherlock about his words when the baby came. John wondered what Sherlock would even say if he couldn’t insult people with his intelligence all day. The idea of a silent Sherlock, or worse, a Sherlock in his rarely-used guise of ‘normal human being,’ didn’t sit well with John.

“Since when do you have a brother named Richard?” John asked, ignoring the uneasy feeling in his stomach.

“Hmm … since I was born.”

The subtext was all but screaming at him, but John forced himself not to punch the Omega. Good Doms didn’t chin Subs. Well, not unless they liked to be chinned.

Sighing, Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Mycroft, of course.”

_“Mycroft?”_

“Yes, that’s what I said, isn’t it?”

“So, what? He decided it was too boring for him? Threw some sounds together until he got his new name?”

It would explain so many things.

“Richard Mycroft Matthew Holmes. I highly suggest you never call him that. Not even our mother uses his first name anymore.”

“Right,” John said, nodding. What more was there to say to something like that? Unless…

“And you?”

“What about me?” Sherlock asked. He fidgeted in his chair, and made a good show of being entirely engrossed in his research once more.

“There’s no way your mother gave him that mouthful and just called you ‘Sherlock.’ Let’s have it.”

“I don’t see the point. I go by Sherlock.”

John scoffed. “This coming from the man who hounded me for weeks trying to find out my middle name?”

Sherlock stilled for a moment before deciding on, “It was for research.”

“No it wasn’t!”

“Worth a try,” Sherlock admitted, shrugging and turning a smile on him.

“No.” John pointed a finger at him.

“No?”

“None of that.”

“None of what? You’re not making any sense, John.”

“Please, like you don’t know. None of that smile of yours that encourages me to forget the current topic of conversation. I want to know your full name.”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Sherlock said, giving his attention to his computer again now that he knew John wasn’t falling for his tricks.

“Right,” John responded.

Silence sat between them for a moment, though not an uncomfortable one. John could recall many nights just like this – each of them doing their own thing, yet completely aware of the other at all times. If John were the romantic sort, he might even say they basked in each other’s presence.

“Why is it so important?” Sherlock asked, and John could see genuine curiosity when he caught sight of blue-grey eyes. They both knew John didn’t see a lack of knowledge as a challenge to be overcome like Sherlock did. Well, at least when it came to subjects besides the solar system.

“Because I love you.”

John watched Sherlock swallow and had to squash down the desire to walk over and lick the column of his throat.

“Yes, you…too.”

Sherlock fidgeted a moment before blurting out, “William Sherlock Scott Holmes.”

_William_. A nice enough name. A solid English name if there ever was one. The name of king. Several kings, in fact. It was … incredibly dull in comparison to Sherlock – both the name and the man. He could understand why Sherlock didn’t want him to know it. Though the Sub had never said as much aloud, John knew he was ever worried about coming off as boring, especially to him.

As if sensing his thoughts, Sherlock said, “Officially it’s still my name, though I never use it. You understand why.”

John “hmmed” in response.

A thought occurred to him then.

“All of your accounts are under the name Sherlock Holmes. How is that possible?”

“I neither know nor care,” Sherlock said. He wrote something down in the notebook next to his keyboard, apparently having decided the conversation had turned to something no longer worth his attention.

“Well, you set them up, didn’t you?”

There was a telling silence.

John sighed. _Mycroft._ Of course.

Back to the thought of Sherlock’s brother, John asked, “How about Sean?”

“Dull.”

=====================================

“Sherlock!” John called out as he ran. He watched as the Omega hopped onto a bin and then disappeared over a wooden privacy fence. John cursed. Would it kill Sherlock to just _once_ try to stay within his line of sight?

Grunting, John pulled himself up onto the bin and flipped himself over the fence. He was vaguely aware in the back of his mind that he wasn’t nearly as graceful about it as Sherlock, but he supposed that was the advantage of an extra ten centimeters.

John froze when his feet touched the ground.

Sherlock’s fingers were intertwined behind his head, though that didn’t stop him from turning to look at him.

“John, how nice of you to join us.”

John eyed the man behind Sherlock wearily.

“Hands up!” the man shouted, pointing his gun at John. He and Sherlock shared a glance for a mere second before Sherlock was moving. The takedown was a thing of beauty – a single fluid move full of all the grace Sherlock possessed.

John pulled out his own gun and pointed it at the man struggling on the ground.

“I don’t think so.”

“Stupid fucking pigs.”

“Wrong once again, Mr. Napley,” Sherlock said. John’s lips twitched. It’d turned into one of the better cases when they’d found out Napley had been hired by his girlfriend to kill her sister, only for him to accidentally kill her instead.

“We’re not cops,” John said, finishing Sherlock’s thought. The man had the intelligence to look wary.

Luckily enough for him, they were nice upstanding citizens that didn’t go around shooting people – at least not those that didn’t presently warrant it – and so the actual police officers were on the scene not twenty minutes later. Sherlock had of course immediately started berating them for their abysmal response time, but Greg hadn’t taken him too seriously. The brilliant smile on Sherlock’s face might have had something to do with that.

Sherlock was in his full blown post-case euphoria as they made their way through the streets, which in turn made John’s own happiness come out twofold. They took special care to walk hand-in-hand as they made their way through the streets, just to taunt a certain big brother who might be watching.

John was honestly beginning to question the whole “British Government” thing. Certainly a man who spent as much time as he did spying on his brother didn’t have time to help run the free world? John bet Anthea was secretly the brains behind the operation.

When he told Sherlock of his suspicions, he’d merely laughed and said she would no doubt be pleased to hear that. The giddiness of the case had John coming up with all sorts of silly theories to make Sherlock smile.

Anthea was secretly Mycroft, who was just a robot she controlled. Anthea was secretly the Queen and the lovely Elizabeth II was just a stand-in until Anthea’s plot for world domination seeded. Somehow it got to the ridiculous: Anthea was secretly an alien ant who’d birthed the entire British government.

John paused under a street light, his fingers running over the back of Sherlock’s hand.

“You know, we won’t be able to do this. If we have a baby.”

“I know.” There was a sadness in Sherlock’s eyes.

John let go of his hand, ashamed that he’d brought it up and ruined their moment.

“We should go to a daycare,” Sherlock said, changing the subject so abruptly it took John a moment to understand his meaning.

“To what … test out the children?” He asked, laughing. See the seriousness on Sherlock’s face, he added, “Sherlock, people can’t just walk in off the street to visit random strangers’ children.”

“I know someone. Owes me a favor from when I stole back her cat from her aunt.”

“Sherlock-” John started and then stopped himself.

What was he even going to say? Don’t allow me this chance to prove to both you and your brother that I’m a perfectly adequate father? Both the Alpha and the Dom in him reared their heads at the idea of being found unworthy to raise and protect his and Sherlock’s children. He’d go if Sherlock wanted him to.

“Nine O’clock tomorrow,” Sherlock said, apparently sensing his change in opinion. He threw up a hand to signal a cab. And, of course, despite the fact they were in the middle of nowhere with not a soul in sight, one glided up to the curb not five minutes later.

“Sure, why not?” John muttered to himself, “Can’t be any worse than what we’ve done before.”

=====================================

“… and pink. She’ll definitely have to wear pink because I want her to look pretty and pink’s the prettiest color. Well, maaaaaaybe purple. But with pink ribbons in her hair,” Melissa said, pointing towards her own pigtails.

John wondered what had done in his life to warrant sitting there listening to a ten-year-old girl detail the perfect Sub wife she was going to have one day, while two other children stuck hair slides into his hair. Well, as much hair as they could find that wasn’t covered in paint. At least he’d not gotten vomit anywhere near his head. The same could not be said about his trousers.

Not a meter before him, two Alpha boys, undoubtedly Doms, as Alphas generally were, were brawling over a box of Legos, and John was distantly aware of the fact that he should probably be stopping them. But then he’d have to move and the last three times he’d gotten up, the little one in the corner had taken it as an invitation to bite his ankle, and he was sure as hell not going to crawl across the floor.

The demon child might take it as an opportunity to bite him in the arse.

He supposed he could just zone the whole lot of them and make his escape before the parents started to arrive to see the mess he’d made with their children. But that felt too much like admitting defeat. Especially since Sherlock was sitting in a far corner, calmly telling a story to a quiet group of seven.

John wasn’t entirely certain how he’d managed to wrangle them into a story-time in the first place, he’d been a bit distracted by the child who’d taken it upon himself to play “dodge paint,” which John had, unfortunately, lost. He vaguely recalled something about “entrails strewn about the street.” Probably best not to think about it. Plausible deniability for when the parents had them both arrested.

As if sensing his gaze, Sherlock glanced up from his group to give John a smug look over the top of one child’s head. John looked away, refusing to give Sherlock the satisfaction of a response. However, doing so just put him right in the line of sight of a boy who’d taken it upon himself to stare at him with his big, wide eyes. A deranged smile graced his face that wouldn’t have been out of place on a serial killer. As far as John could tell, he’d not moved in well over an hour. It freaked him out a little, if he was honest with himself. John was half expecting the boy’s head to start spinning at any moment.

The lid of the box the boys were fighting over popped open finally, and John sighed as he was smacked in the face as several Lego pieces flew free. His children, he decided, weren’t going to be allowed Lego. Or paint. Or little toy cars or dolls or bouncy balls or shoes or books – anything that might be thrown at him, really. They would sit quietly and stare at the walls. The walls that would probably be covered in blood and bullet holes and whatever else Sherlock could get his hands on.

John sighed at the thought of his gun. They’d _so_ have to child-proof their future home.

The familiar pain he’d been feeling ever since the idea of having children had sunk in came back in full force. They’d have to get rid of all the strange things in the kitchen … and the rest of their place.

Sherlock wouldn’t be able to bring home any more body parts or experiment with dangerous chemicals in the kitchen. John would have to get a safe for his gun, if not toss it completely. Even if he kept it, John had been thinking that they might have to take up Mycroft on his never-ending offers for a security detail. Or, at least, an obvious one, considering the nosy git was having them silently followed already. Who knew what sort of psychopaths might attempt to get at him or Sherlock through their child.

One of them would have to stay home to watch the baby, too. John wouldn’t mind.

One of the girls started screaming as the demon child latched onto her hand.

Well, maybe he’d mind a little. But then what would Sherlock do? The majority of cases he refused to go on without him. They’d have to hire a babysitter.

John frowned. Some of their cases lasted _days_.

“I made you a picture.”

Startled, John focused on the little girl in front of him. She was holding out a picture depicting what looked to be Sherlock and him riding … unicorns?

John nodded his thanks, taking the piece of art.

Melissa leaned over to examine it.

“Very good, Cathy. You’ll make a fine wife one day.”

She might as well have been talking about the prospects of a soldier in boot camp. John had to wonder if one or both of her parents were in the military or if she was just naturally that terrifying.

Cathy curtsied and ran off with a giggle.

Across the room, Sherlock rose from his place in the circle to come stand next to him. The demon child perked up, but apparently didn’t like the taste of detective and settled back down to wait for someone else to feast on.

“You appear to be enjoying yourself,” Sherlock said. The upturn at the corner of his mouth said he knew otherwise.

“Oh, you know how it is. Just another day being attacked by violent children while I listen to another child barely waist-high tell me all about the qualities of her perfect Sub.”

Sherlock’s smile was in full bloom now and the beauty of it almost made it all worth it.

“Let’s go home.”

“What? Now?” John looked around at the room of children that might as well have been unsupervised for how well they were currently watching them amidst their conversation. “Sherlock, we can’t leave these children unattended.”

“Oh don’t worry about that, Sandra’s right in the next room.”

“In the next- You know what, I’m not even going to bother,” John said, throwing his hands up.

He allowed Sherlock to pull him to his feet and then they were off after popping in to tell Sandra her hours-long break was up.

“John, what did you think of the children? Honestly,” Sherlock asked, turning his penetrating gaze on John, watching for even the slightest hint that might betray his true thoughts.

“Honestly? I thought they were awful,” John answered. “But, you know what they say about other peoples’ kids-”

“I don’t want children.”

John blinked, and then he just stared at Sherlock.

Apparently taking this as a sign of stupidity, Sherlock repeated, slowly, “I do not want children.”

“Yes, I heard you.”

“Oh. Good.” Sherlock gave him a single hard nod before turning to hail one of his miraculous appears-from-nowhere cabs.

John got into the car when it arrived. They rode in silence for about fifteen minutes before John responded quietly, “I don’t want children either.”

Because he didn’t, now that the thought about it. Now that he could see what he should have seen from the beginning. He liked kids. He liked the idea of having his own kid. With Sherlock. But not at the expense of their life.

There would have to be compromises. There would have to be _many_ compromises considering the way they lived. And John just wasn’t ready for that. He’d always envisioned his life with Sherlock just as it was now. Before bloody Mycroft had gone and mentioned children out of the blue.

“I know,” Sherlock responded. The prick.

John reached over and pulled his face in for a light kiss.

When they parted, Sherlock added, “It can remain on the table, of course. Should we change our mind.” It went unspoken that they likely wouldn’t.

“It’s fine. It’s all fine,” John murmured against Sherlock’s lips before kissing him again, this one much less chaste. Let sodding Mycroft watch that on his cameras.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'd love to hear what you thought!
> 
> Also, I'm currently looking for a beta a 5,300 word D/S Sherlock fic with consensual non-consent. It's basically just 5k of hardcore porn. _Not_ fluffy by any means. LMK if you'd be interested.
> 
> Finally, I've noticed that I've gained some tumblr followers as well as a few people that have popped onto my (pretty much dead) LiveJournal. I can only assume it's because of my increased writing I've been doing lately. Would anyone be interested in me posting more stuff on either of those websites? Like updates, requests for betas, etc.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Edited by the lovely Megabat! Thanks!  
>   
> 

“I, John Hamish Watson, would like to formally request permission from the Head of the Holmes family to marry a Submissive under your protection by the name of Sherlock Holmes,” John said.

Mycroft opened his mouth to respond. John held up a hand, already knowing from the look on Mycroft’s face what he was going to say.

“Wait, let me guess…No?” he asked.

Mycroft didn’t look amused.

Good, because the last thing John felt like doing at the moment was laughing when he’d just come back from having the bite from the demon child checked for contagions. Specifically rabies. Possibly micro-organisms from an actual demon. That child hadn’t been normal, no matter what Sherlock said while laughing at him.

“And my brother says your intellectual skills are somewhat lacking,” Mycroft said dryly.

John smiled in the hope that the happy expression might convince his fist not to punch the man in front of him. So far his fist appeared to be listening to reason, but John couldn’t be certain how long that’d last.

“And are you going to give me another excuse or should I just assume by now it’s ‘because I’m a dickhead’?” John asked. His words came out much more forcefully than normal, but John found he didn’t care after the day he’d had yesterday. He was certain he’d continue to see the staring child’s eyes in his nightmares for years to come.

“Because you are incapable of showing Sherlock’s Head of Family respect?”

“I show Sherlock respect. That should be enough.”

Something close to approval flitted behind Mycroft’s eyes.

“Yes, I suppose I can’t deny that. However, respect is not the only thing a relationship requires.”

“He doesn’t want children.”

“No.”

John wondered if Mycroft wouldn’t like some help wiping that condescending look off his face. Preferably by smashing it into the restaurant table between them. The posh restaurant table in the post restaurant that Mycroft had obviously picked just so he could flaunt his poshness while neither of them actually ordered anything besides water. Water probably made of liquefied diamonds and costing more than everything in the fridge back at the flat.

“You knew?”

Mycroft gave him a look that spoke volumes.

“So what you’re saying is that that was some sort of bloody test.”

“I was under the impression these were all tests.”

John straightened.

“Then there has to be an end to them,” he said, shifting gears. “Eventually you’ll run out of bullshit and I’ll have proven myself worthy, is that it?”

“That’s it.” Mycroft smiled. “Luckily enough, I still have quite a bit more ‘bullshit’ to get through. Such as the fact that Omegas have certain biological needs to which they expect their spouses to attend. I’m afraid I can’t approve your request to marry Sherlock as I have no proof that you are … _satisfactory._ ”

John stared at him in bewildered silence. Surely Mycroft couldn’t be implying that he…?

Mycroft reached into the briefcase he’d brought, certainly not a common accessory for the man, and pulled out an official-looking piece of paper. John quickly scanned the contents. It essentially amounted to a “permission slip” giving him the right to have sex with Sherlock so long as they refrained from any activities that might lead to the Omega becoming pregnant. Once he took it back to Baker Street and got Sherlock to sign it, he couldn’t be charged with sub-rape.

“You’ll have to excuse me,” Mycroft said, looking at his watch, “I’m afraid I have another lunch appointment set to arrive within the next ten minutes.”

John was so happy he didn’t even question why Mycroft would have scheduled _another_ meeting during John’s meeting time. He supposed the other Alpha had deduced that he’d leave once he’d been given the paper.

He had deduced correctly. John was out the door and calling goodbyes over his shoulder before Mycroft had even raised a hand to call for the waiter. A vicious sort of pleasure washed through him at the disgruntled looks of the patrons and waitstaff.

=====================================

“Sherlock?” John called, bursting through the door to the flat.

Not catching sight of Sherlock in either the living room or the kitchen, John was just about to peek into his bedroom when he decided that that was perhaps just a bit too forward. Just because he could feel his prick pressing painfully against his trousers at the mere thought of being able to touch Sherlock’s bare skin, didn’t mean the other man felt the same way.

For all that Sherlock railed against people’s perceptions of what a Sub should be – a delicate, quiet thing patiently waiting at home for his or her Dom while tending to the children – he could be surprisingly Traditionalist in his acceptance of certain societal norms. The mere fact that he willingly submitted to the conventional discipline handed out to “misbehaving” Subs still shocked John to this day. For all he knew, Sherlock might want to follow the ideals of proper Sub behavior and wait until they were married to touch each other.

John eyed the door in front of him. Would Sherlock see it as him pushing for sex if he immediately told him about Mycroft’s permission? John didn’t want to pressure him into anything. He debated with himself for a minute before deciding the least he could do was tell Sherlock about his meeting. He’d work his way up towards the permission so as to not come out as overbearing and potentially confuse his Sub into thinking he was required to provide his Dom with sex whenever John wanted.

Raising a hand, John knocked on the door in front of him. “Sherlock? I went to see your brother again,” he said.

There wasn’t any answer. John frowned and dug out his mobile. In his rush home, he’d forgotten to check it. One new message.

_On retreat. Estimated return the 17th. Don’t touch the squirrel pelt. – SH_

John frowned.

Almost all Omegas in the modern world took medication to prevent unwanted heats, thus altering their natural fertility cycles, if not their entire sex drive. It was recommended that an Omega come off his or her medication at least once a year to allow their bodies to “realign” and reduce the risk of permanently damaging their ability to have children. “Retreat” was a polite way of saying “sex holiday.” Or, rather, “toy holiday,” in Sherlock’s case, since he had no one to have sex with.

John swallowed hard at the image of Sherlock, naked and flushed with arousal. In his mind’s eye he could see Sherlock with one hand wrapped around his cock while the other pushed a large vibrator in and out of his needy hole. John’s erection, which had died down somewhat, flared back to life with a vengeance. He let out a soft groan.

He was going to _murder_ Mycroft, that fucking bastard. John wasn’t naïve enough to think it a coincidence that Sherlock just “happened” to decide now to head out to the quaint little cottage John had been informed was reserved specifically for this purpose. The seventeenth was over two weeks away and when Sherlock returned he’d be utterly exhausted and not in any shape to appreciate all of the things John so very badly wanted to do to him.

The image of Sarah flashed before his eyes. While they hadn’t worked out as a couple, the Beta had playfully informed him that she was up for casual nights of mutual pleasure. John’s cock ached at the idea. Though technically a Dom, Sarah was close enough to the line between the two orientations that she could make a _very_ convincing Sub when she was in the mood.

John knew he had no legal or societal obligation to remain faithful to Sherlock since his bid for permission to marry him had been rejected. In the opinion of the general public, he was no longer even recognized as being in the process of “courting” the Sub, now that permission had been asked for and an answer given. Seeing how it was considered bad form to continue to fish for a different response, it would be perfectly acceptable for him to push Sherlock from his mind and go out and shag the first willing person he encountered.

John shook his head and started towards the shower. As far as he was concerned, “society” could go hang.

=====================================

John spent the next several days in complete agony. He’d lived with Sherlock without any problems for years, never once allowing his desire to get the better of him. Before their relationship had started, he’d always been able to sleep with others when his desires made themselves known, and afterwards he’d comforted himself with the knowledge that Sherlock was worth the wait.

Unfortunately, now that he was _allowed_ to act on his desires, the fact that he wasn’t _able_ to was killing him. Every time he forced himself to stop thinking about sex, the image of Sherlock out there somewhere, desperately wanting to be fucked would pop into his mind and he’d suddenly be unbearably hard. He’d wanked more times in the past five days than he had in the previous six months combined. If he didn’t know it was impossible, he’d have thought _he_ was the one who’d gone into heat.

This was how he found himself sitting in a pub with Greg, the other man kind enough to allow John to wallow in misery next to him while they pretended to watch the game on the telly.

“It’s like I’m a bloody teenager again. I opened the freezer the other day and Sherlock’s stupid squirrel pelt fell out at me. I should have thrown the damn thing away, but all I could think about was how that was what he texted me when he left. ‘Off to retreat. Don’t touch my squirrel pelt.’ And then all I could think about was Sherlock on his bloody retreat. You can guess the rest.”

John raised his glass to take another long swallow. He was, if he were being perfectly honest, just a bit drunk. Which was one of the two very important reasons he’d come to the pub, so he was fine with that. The other reason being to complain to someone who’d allow him to let off some steam without trying to convince him that Sherlock wasn’t good for him, or _even better,_ that Sherlock was just an uppity Sub that needed a firm hand and a good dicking to show him his place.

Greg chuckled. “Cheer up, mate. The worst is yet to come.”

John shoved at his shoulder. Or at least attempted to; it was a bit of a miss with John’s current level of hand-eye coordination.

“Seriously,” Greg continued, “just you wait until Sherlock gets home and you have to actually look at him without being able to touch. _That’ll_ be what kills you.”

“No, what’ll kill me is the fact that I’m his private doctor. I’ll have to attend to him when he gets back.”

Greg raised his glass, “To poor sods.”

John raised his in turn.

“Mycroft,” John said after taking a drink, “If I didn’t need his permission, I’d punch him in the nose.” _Again,_ John added silently. “Still might, after he gives it.”

Greg shifted in his seat and looked away. John reminded himself that the other Dom seemed to have some sort of unique working relationship with Sherlock’s brother.

“I think he’s just trying to protect Sherlock.”

John snorted.

“Hey now, hear me out. Sherlock doesn’t need a Dom, per se, but that doesn’t mean he couldn’t do with a few solid whacks to the behind every once in a while. I’ve certainly given him my fair share after some of the stupid stunts he’s pulled.” John nodded.

“But Sherlock is…Sherlock-” they shared a look “-You can’t just haul off and paddle him every time he brings home a squirrel pelt and shoves it in the freezer. Or every time he makes someone cry or creates a biohazard in Baker Street. I guess what I’m trying to say is, if _I_ were Mycroft, I’d want to make absolutely certain that the person my brother ended up with is willing to tell him no, without saying no to _him._ ”

“I am that person! You just described me!” John snapped, raising his voice above the din of various people speaking.

John scowled at the startled patrons until they went back to their own conversations.

“Well, yeah, but does Mycroft know that?”

“Mycroft knows everything.”

Greg sighed.

“I don’t know what to tell you, mate. I’m just speculating here. Goodness knows he certainly hasn’t told me why he’s doing it,” Greg said, taking a sip of his drink. John frowned at exasperation in his voice. “Maybe he’s afraid you’ll get tired of Sherlock and move on.”

“I love Sherlock.”

“I know that. _Mycroft_ knows that too. It’s just…” He looked around as if he’d find the right words written on the walls. “Things have the potential to change once you’re married. People can find that their values and beliefs clash. They can find out that their Control Levels don’t match up as well as they thought and now they’re both unsatisfied with their level of control in the relationship. Sometimes people just lose interest.”

Greg looked down into his glass as he spoke. Without meaning to, John glanced towards Greg’s hand sitting on the counter. The pale bit of skin where a ring used to be seemed to glow in the dim lighting. He knew Greg had officially moved on, and was supposedly even secretly dating, if one was to believe the rumor mill, but he doubted that stopped the pain of divorce.

John gazed down into his own drink. “We’ll cross that hurdle when we get to it.”

John knew he would never see Sherlock as anything but utterly amazing. That meant if anyone was going to be breaking off their arrangement; it was going to be the man he loved. John took a long swig of his beer at the thought.

If Sherlock decided one day down the road that it just wasn’t working, John would sign the papers to release him from the marriage without any fuss. Even if it’d break his heart to do so.

“Bloody hell, aren’t we a couple of sad bastards,” Greg said after a moment of pained silence. “Let’s go back to talking about your awful sex life. That was entertaining.”

John gave him a dirty look.

“What?” Greg asked, smiling at him with false innocence.

“Should have gone drinking with Mike,” John said as if speaking to himself, though loud enough for Greg to hear.

“Oi! I’m great company. Very useful.” John snorted. “No? How about this-” Greg leaned in towards him “-sex shops.”

John choked into his mug.

“Hey, none of that. I’m serious. They’re not just for horny Subs, you know. They have all kinds of ‘helping’ items for us Doms too. If you know what I mean.”

“Yes, I think I understand. I am an adult, after all. I’m not really the type of bloke to go in for that, though.” John preferred a real partner, or, saving that, a simple wank in the shower. He’d never been into the fancy toys people bought themselves.

Greg shrugged. “Suit yourself. Just don’t come crying to me when you find yourself desperate enough to start a three-way in the local launderette’s bathroom.”

John side-eyed him over his drink.

“What?” Greg asked, grinning, “I had an exciting youth.”

=====================================

John wasn’t the sort of bloke to go in for the fancy toys, but the situation in some vague way involved Sherlock and so John really wasn’t that surprised when he found himself outside “Control & Beyond” not two days later. Sherlock had a way of making John do things even when he wasn’t around.

John peered in through the tinted windows but could only vaguely see shapes moving inside. Right then. He squared his shoulders and marched through the door in a fashion not dissimilar to when he’d been in the army.

A couple of curious strangers turned to look at him – a Dom and her Sub from the looks of it – but otherwise nobody paid him much mind. Not that he would have cared if they had. Not much, anyway. It was a bit uncomfortable being in an adult shop, seeing how that last time he’d gone to one had been with some drunken army mates back in the day, but not _embarrassing._ John couldn’t think of anything that would truly _be_ embarrassing after years of having to deal with Sherlock’s complete inappropriateness at the most awkward of moments.

John quietly walked around the shop, looking at this and that. The items ranged from the expected – nipple clamps and cock rings and enough dildos to fill an entire closet – to the confusing – John probably didn’t want to know what people used tweezers for – to the downright bizarre – a large elephant statue with front arms outspread as if to hold something and a large trunk pointing straight up into the air. John tried very hard not to think about that last one.

Quite a large section of the store was dedicated towards Omega needs, for obvious reasons, but large hanging signs indicated there were also smaller areas for Betas and Alphas. The latter had the little blue “Dom approved!” signs interwoven all throughout the merchandise, while the former had a smattering of both Dom & Sub signs. The Omega section was almost entirely filled with the green “Sub approved” signs. John could see a large sign over in the far corner that read “Playtime,” which he assumed was toys specifically designed for couples.

John paused in front of a collection of collars that didn’t appear to belong to any specific area. The section ran top to bottom of the shelf and was wider than two of him standing side-by-side. He ran his eyes over them, wondering if Sherlock would like one, even if only to wear around the flat. Feeling impulsive, he reached out and selected a simple black one made of a thick, silky material he couldn’t quite place but which appeared to be of high-quality to his inexperienced eyes. Sherlock probably could have identified the material on sight and named the exact origin of the particular collar John held in his hand, right down to the name of the delivery company.

The band was about the width of two fingers put together and the back clasp looked no different than a regular belt buckle, with the exception of an added O-ring to attach a lead. What had caught John’s attention, however, was the little silver bell dangling on the front. He shook it and listened to it jingle. This was exactly what he needed to keep track of an overly excitable detective who liked to run off without him. Not that Sherlock would ever wear something so noisy when he was trying to work. It was a nice enough fantasy, though, so John kept it with him to buy.

Continuing onwards, he reached the section for Alphas. His eyes skipped past the small collection of dildos and vibrators. He didn’t want to _be_ fucked. They landed on a large box that contained what looked to be a an entire male Omega arse made out of silicon, including a small interior set-up that would squirt any inserted lubricant into the hole whenever you squeezed the sides and even a pair of dangling balls beneath the arsehole. John eyed the price sticker, thought about how miserable he’d been the past few days, and decided it was worth it.

He grabbed it and an extra bottle of the recommended lubricant before his humiliation could make him change his mind. Darting up to the register, he dropped his items on the counter and tried not to make it look like he was purposefully avoiding the cashier’s eyes.

“In the process of courting?” the woman – a Sub, judging by the collar she openly displayed – asked him.

“Yes, how did you know?” John said, furrowing his brows.

He was used to Sherlock making random deductions out of the blue, but complete strangers? At least, he thought she was a stranger. John could never be certain these days after all the cases he’d been on with Sherlock. He just hoped she wasn’t a friend of Harry’s or, even worse, the sister of one his mates that he’d met once at some Christmas party and had immediately forgotten. They’d never let him live it down if it got back to them that he was buying fake arses from a shop that carried bubble-gum flavored anal beads.

The woman beamed at him. “Oh, I was right? That’s so awesome! I’ve really been trying out the whole ‘Science of Deduction’ thing ever since I saw Sherlock’s website.”

John stared at the woman in dawning horror.

“Oh, sorry! Should I call him Mr. Holmes? I didn’t mean to be weird, I just feel like I practically know him after reading all the blog posts. And you too, of course, Dr. Watson. Or can I call you John?” she asked, giving him what he thought was her attempt at a flirtatious smile.

John wondered if it wasn’t too late to run.

“I would prefer it if you didn’t,” John said. And then because he was really too polite for his own good, he added, “If that’s all right with you.”

“No problem. I understand how hard it must be, being a celebrity and all. All sorts of people calling out to you on the street, I’m certain. Probably best to keep your first name reserved for those special someones.” She held up the fake arse.

“That’s not my special- Actually, you know what, it doesn’t matter. What was the total?”

There was no point in leaving if she’d already recognized him, might as well buy his fake, self-lubricating arse and hope the newspapers the next day weren’t too keen on making him out to be a _complete_ pervert.

“Oh right,” she said, finally ringing up his two items. She gave him the total and John handed her his card. Handing it back she said, “It was the collar.”

“Excuse me?” John looked up from putting his card back into his wallet.

“The collar. That’s how I knew you were courting. We have people buy these things all the time, but nobody buys them along with a collar. They’d get a doll if they wanted to fantasize.” She paused to eye him. “You didn’t want a doll, did you? They’re not in the same place as the arses.”

“Could you say that any louder?” John’s eyes darted over to the couple still in the store.

“Oh, don’t worry, they’re in here all the time. They won’t say anything,” she said waving a hand. Then she leaned towards him and whispered, “Don’t worry, I won’t either. Your secret’s safe with me, Dr. Watson.”

“Right. No dolls for me. Thank you-” John grabbed his purchases “-Have a lovely day.”

He left the store as quickly as he could without making it look like he was outright running.

=====================================

John stared at it. It stared back at John. Or, rather, the fake arse sat on his bed waiting to be used if John could work up the nerve. He’d bought it, brought it home, he’d taken it out of the package, and he’d even put lubricant into the internal compartment. All that was left for him to actually use the sex toy he’d spent a ridiculous amount of money on.

John continued to stare at it.

He reached out to the toy, going slow as if it might attack him at any moment. Flushing bright red, he stuck his middle finger into the small hole. It accommodated him easily enough, though it was drier than the meat Sherlock had made for dinner the one and only time he’d ever attempted to cook for them. Removing his finger, he tentatively placed his hands on the sides and squeezed. Lubricant came oozing out of the opening and slid down the balls. John squeezed it again.

It was utterly fascinating to watch, if completely horrifying to contemplate. John still couldn’t believe he’d bought the thing.

Sherlock could never know. He’d throw it into the Thames before he let the detective snoop around enough to find it.

Thoughts of Sherlock put him in the right mood to appreciate his purchase. John rubbed himself through his trousers. He wasn’t yet aroused but the desire to have sex was in full bloom, just as it’d been ever since Sherlock had left for his retreat.

John stuck his finger back into the now wet hole. It didn’t feel anything like an actual arse, as John could say with definite certainty from the many wonderful times he’d gotten to stick his finger up random people’s arses while working at the clinic. It was good enough to pretend, however, and so John slipped his finger from the hole and unzipped his trousers.

“John, dear, are you up there?” Mrs. Hudson called from what sounded like the living room of the flat.

Startled, John grabbed the arse and tossed it at a corner. Lubricant shot out of the arsehole as it hit the wall and some distant part of John hoped he hadn’t broken its rectum even as he tossed a blanket over it. The questionably covered area of the room was quite possibly the most suspicious thing John had ever seen, but he supposed it would have to do for the moment.

Zipping up his trousers, he marched out of the room like a soldier heading into battle.

“Mrs. Hudson?” he said as he entered the living room.

“Oh, there you are dear. I just wanted to let you know I made some biscuits. I put them in the kitchen for you. Just this once. I’m your landlady, not your housekeeper.”

John couldn’t help but grant her a smile, even if she’d almost given him a heart attack.

“Thanks. I look forward to them.”

“Yes, well, I thought you could use something to cheer you up. What with Sherlock gone and all.”

“You do know I’m not around Sherlock all the time? I don’t need cheering up just because he’s decided to pop out for a couple of weeks.” John refused to think of the arse hiding in the corner of his room.

“Of course not, dear,” she said, patting his arm. “If you ever need anyone to talk to, you know where to find me.” Giving the messy flat a despairing look, she turned to leave.

“I’m serious! My life does not revolve around Sherlock Holmes!” he called as she started down the stairs.

Mrs. Hudson completely ignored him as she continued on down, just like everyone else in his life did when it came to him talking about Sherlock.

=====================================

John looked up from his paper as he heard the door open downstairs. He tilted his head slightly to listen.

“I’m not an invalid, Mycroft!”

“Goodness no. Only completely incapable of walking by yourself.”

John smiled and put the newspaper on the table. Rising from his chair, he made his way towards the top of the stairs.

“John,” Sherlock said, his voice carrying a hint of surprise. His eyes were owlish as he looked up at him.

“Sherlock. It’s good to see you again.” John’s smiled widened even more and Sherlock gave him a small one in return.

It really was good to see him again, and not just because John had been horny as hell thinking about what Sherlock might have been doing to himself at any given moment in time. Once Sherlock’s heat had started, he’d not been much use for conversation and John hadn’t even received any text messages after a few days. He’d missed talking to him more than he’d thought he would in such a short time.

“Mycroft,” John said, nodding politely towards where the other Alpha was standing just behind Sherlock, his hand placed on Sherlock’s left elbow.

Though his tone indicated he’d like nothing more than to strangle him to death, John refused to give him the satisfaction of voicing such thoughts. Besides, John could tell from where he was standing that Sherlock’s legs were a little wobbly and the last thing he needed was him falling on his arse because the two Doms in the room had started fighting.

Sherlock’s eyes narrowed and he whipped his gaze back and forth between John and Mycroft, but he didn’t say anything. It was a testament to how exhausted he must truly be.

“Come along, brother dear. Unless you’d prefer that I carry you?”

Both John and Sherlock snorted at that and Mycroft rolled his eyes in return.

“Heaven forbid you should actually have to do some work for once, brother dear.”

“I’ll do it,” John said, coming down the stairs.

Without waiting for permission, he swept his arms behind Sherlock’s knees and back and made to return the way he’d come. It was a tad awkward considering their height difference, but John was a doctor, a former soldier, and a future husband, and Sherlock looked far too shaky on his legs for his comfort. He actually should have taken another week to rest at the cottage, but John knew without asking that Sherlock had demanded to be returned to London immediately. His flatmate would rather risk death by stairs than spend another moment secluded away from anything interesting with only _Mycroft_ for occasional company.

John felt his smile morph into a dopey grin as Sherlock tucked his head up against his shoulder.

Mycroft moved ahead of him once they’d gotten upstairs and opened Sherlock’s bedroom door as they came to it, allowing John to pass through and head towards the bed. John carefully untangled himself from the Omega’s limbs as he divested himself of his beloved.

Sherlock glared at them both. It would have been far more effective if he hadn’t buried half his face into the nearest pillow the instant his head had touched the mattress.

“I want tea,” he demanded.

John sighed. “I’ll make some.”

Mycroft followed him out as he moved towards the kitchen.

“Did he damage himself at all?” John asked, the professional in him needing to know.

On occasion, Omegas become so frenzied during heat they ended up hurting themselves by accident. They produced their own lubricant and were evolutionarily designed to accommodate the much larger knotted cocks of Alphas without much stretching (a nice trait to have when you and your partner were too full of painful _need_ to take time to properly prepare). But that hadn’t stopped John from encountering cases where someone had damaged a sensitive opening by inserting something far too large, for far too long, or far too roughly. And that wasn’t taking into consideration the chafing that could occur in other areas from too much play or how Omega Subs sometimes engaged in unsafe practices in order to pretend they were being dominated.

“He played with his nipples a tad too enthusiastically, I’m afraid.” Mycroft winced as he spoke. “His anus will be moderately sore for a few days, as can be expected, but will require no further attention. His penis and testicles will undoubtedly be tender but he should be fine so long as an erection doesn’t occur.”

John nodded along. Nothing unusual in regards to a male heat.

“He has a few bruises here and there, but nothing to worry over. All-in-all, the family doctor assures me that he is as healthy as can be expected after a normal retreat.”

“Thank you.”

“You are his physician.”

“Thank you,” John said again, honestly grateful.

Mycroft merely nodded in response.

As annoyed as he was that Mycroft was being a dickhead when it came to granting him permission to marry, the man did allow John far more freedom than was granted most Doms. As an unmarried Sub, Sherlock should not have an unmarried Dom for his private doctor. They shouldn’t be living with each other and some Traditionalists might even make the case that they shouldn’t be _speaking_ with each other without a chaperone. John should have moved out the instant he’d realized the mad man he’d gone home with was not in fact another Dom.

Several of John’s mates had pointed out that he was tempting fate by taking the risk. At any moment, either Sherlock or Mycroft could turn on him and claim that he’d had sex with Sherlock without his Head’s approval. With John living with him, it would be easy to prove the allegations, true or not. It was practically inviting a sub-rape charge, should either Holmes turn out to be unsavory. John’s only saving grace would be the fact that it’d make Mycroft look just as bad. A Head of Family who not only allowed his younger Sub sibling to live with an unmarried Dom, but who also reimbursed him for when he acted as Sherlock’s private doctor, would be considered in gross negligence of his familial duty. It didn’t carry a legal charge but instead an extreme social stigma, which was even worse for a man in Mycroft’s position.

“You’ve acquired the necessary supplies?” Mycroft asked, though both of them knew it wasn’t really a question.

“Yeah. I’ll take a look at Sherlock’s nipples tonight just to make certain, but I think I should have whatever he might need.” He’d restocked his medical bag while the other man had been away.

“Then my job here is done. I’ll take my leave. Good day, John,” Mycroft said, turning to go.

“Goodbye, Mycroft,” John said, just finishing putting the kettle on.

“Oh yes,” Mycroft said, turning back around. “I’d almost forgotten.”

John’s eyes narrowed. Mycroft Holmes didn’t _forget_ things.

The other man pulled out a small prescription bottle and set it on the table.

John recognized it immediately as one of the medications given Omegas to suppress their heats. It wasn’t the one Sherlock normally used. This one had the added effect of dramatically lowering the person’s libido, to the point that some male Omegas couldn’t even get an erection with direct stimulation. It was a favorite among the more Traditionalist families, as well as very controlling Doms.

As far as he knew, Sherlock had never taken the medication before, instead preferring the one that would allow him to “engage in intercourse with whomever he chose.” After Buckingham, Sherlock had confirmed to John that he was a virgin, so he assumed it had been all talk on his flatmate’s part. Still, he could see why someone as free spirited as Sherlock would want the ability if the opportunity ever came up.

“Sherlock confided in me during our time away that he’s been having difficulty concentrating on his cases due to the arousal he feels when in your presence. Since he insisted that he can’t possibly perform his work without his blogger, we decided that this was a perfect solution,” Mycroft said. He was all smiles. Like a circling shark who’d just devoured his first bit of flailing prey and was now coming back for seconds.

John silently fumed and reminded himself that punching the British Government in the nose right then would probably land him in jail in a different country, never to be seen nor heard from again.

“And how exactly am I supposed to be able to prove that I can take care of ‘certain biological needs’?”

If Sherlock had already started taking the new medication, it wouldn’t be safe for him to suddenly switch back to the old one, especially not with his history of drug usage.

He told himself that if Mycroft suggested he have sex with Sherlock anyway, he was going to chin the man, exiled to Antarctica or not.

“A marriage doesn’t just involve sex, John.” Mycroft looked at him as if he was a young child. “Why don’t you ask my brother what else he needs from you?”

With that, Mycroft turned and left.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, whatcha think of this one? 
> 
> Next one should be up...soonish? It's actually like 80% done but I stopped to do some research to make things sound a little more plausible. So now I might have to do some editing before I can continue writing the rest of the chapter. 
> 
> Also, we need to have a serious talk about how much I love Greg's occasional sassiness in the show. XD


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sooooo, I started this fic with the very simple idea of one "Mycroft challenge" per chapter, and that worked out for the first few chapters. Well, as I've developed the fic more & more, it's come to my attention that that's just not going to work. This fic was originally planned to be about 7 chapters & is now going to be at least 9. I've realized that including all the scenes I want to include would make me produce 10-15k chapters if I don't break them up better. 
> 
> In addition, I've tossed my original outline & deleted anything I had pre-written in favor of a better overall plot. So, updates may be a little slower (as you've probably noticed) AND I'm getting rid of the dubious consent warning at the start since I've decided not to go that route, though I may put it in a oneshot since it's pretty stand-alone.
> 
> Once again, thanks to my lovely beta, Megabat.  
>   
> 

John had decided he’d take Mycroft’s advice, just the once, and had asked Sherlock what he wanted from him. He’d immediately regretted it.

Sherlock had taken it to mean he was free to treat John as even more of a servant than he normally did. It seemed like every half hour there was a new “request” from his flatmate. They ranged anywhere from the usual - “John. Tea, please” - to the less usual - “John, count how many bristles are on this toothbrush” - to the downright odd - “John, come watch _Love You Forever_ with me.”

That last one still puzzled him over a week later. As far as he’d been able to tell, it hadn’t been for a case, and he couldn’t imagine Sherlock wanting to see it for his own personal enjoyment. They’d ended up leaving soon into the film’s prologue, so it _probably_ hadn’t been Sherlock adding random bits of “cultural” information to his Mind Palace. Considering they’d wound up giggling over cases at Angelo’s later that night, John could only conclude it had been Sherlock’s odd attempt at a “normal” date. Which was, quite frankly, terrifying.

He’d much rather have Sherlock pointing out strange fungi growing on people’s bodies than sitting next to him as he loudly declared a film to be utter tripe in the middle of a crowded cinema. By the time they’d left, the other people had been barely holding themselves back from forming a frothing mob and stoning Sherlock to death one skittle at a time. John was _still_ surprised they’d _only_ had popcorn thrown at them.

“John,” Sherlock said, pulling him from his thoughts of murderous movie-goers. Sherlock stood to the right of his chair, just a hairsbreadth from John’s arm and his laptop, which was open to his latest blog entry. Pale hands smoothed out tight trousers in a movement that John had come to recognize as one of Sherlock’s many unconscious habits. Even Sherlock’s body was ever restless.

“The Exotic Deaths of Sherlock Holmes: Number 58” (being ritualistically sacrificed by a no-longer-secret cult that worshipped penguins) had to wait as John turned towards Sherlock.

“Yes?”

Sherlock paused for the barest of seconds, and John knew what was coming before he even opened his mouth.

“Tell me what you like best about my hair,” Sherlock ordered.

“Hmm.” John tapped his chin.

These sort of inquiries had become Sherlock’s favorite type of demand since Mycroft had somehow maneuvered John into being his brother’s slave. They ranged from broad questions such as “tell me what you like best about me” to narrow questions like that which Sherlock had just asked him. John had been amused at first - thinking this either some odd new experiment or Sherlock’s vanity fishing for more compliments. By the fifth time, he’d started to notice a pattern.

Sherlock always hesitated just the _tiniest_ bit before asking, almost as if he wasn’t certain he wanted the answer. Then when John gave him a positive response, he scrutinized it for a moment, as if checking its validity with what he knew to be true. When he judged that John was being honest, a look of profound _relief_ would take over his face before it was squashed underneath a mask of bored indifference.

It also hadn’t escaped John’s notice that Sherlock always, _always_ said “like” and _never_ “love.”

He was starting to think he might need to have his love _literally_ spelled out on the side of a building in order for Sherlock to truly believe him. He’d talk to Raz about that. It was the least the man could do after John had taken his bloody ASBO for him.

“Well…” John trailed off. What could he say that wouldn’t leave him sounding too much like a soppy romantic?

Sherlock fidgeted while he waited for the answer, and John couldn’t help but feel as if he’d been shot all over again. His great detective looked so _fragile_ in that moment. As if John’s thoughts on his bloody _hair_ were of any great importance.

Fuck it. He’d be a soppy romantic.

“I love how soft it is. I love how dark and curly it is. I love how kissable it is. I love how it frames your face. I love … how much it suits you. It’s perfect just the way it is, and if you ever changed it, I’m certain it would be perfect then too. Every centimetre of you is perfect, no matter what. You’re bloody gorgeous, and I’m lucky the man that picked me turned out to be so handsome. Not that I _wouldn’t_ want to marry him if he was a complete toad. Having a stunning husband is just a nice bonus.” John gave him a cheeky grin.

“That was a list. ‘Best’ means _one_ trait. Your overabundant flattery is trite and unbecoming,” Sherlock said, though the pinking of his cheeks told an entirely different story than his mouth.

John crossed his arms and shrugged. “Sorry, I can’t pick just one.”

Sherlock huffed and stomped over to throw himself onto the sofa. He grabbed a magazine off the coffee table and positioned it so that he could read, though not before John saw a slight smile form at the corners of his lips. He said nothing, allowing Sherlock his beloved melodramatics.

John went back to typing his blog entry. Should he include how he’d burst into the abandoned building right as a religious nut had started coating Sherlock’s cock and balls with shaving cream? John bit his lip at the mental image. It was rather erotic, now that he wasn’t panicking over the love of his life being sacrificed to the penguin gods. He shifted in his chair. It would probably be best to keep that part of the case to himself.

Sherlock’s perusal of the magazine didn’t stop him from noticing John’s discomfort at once. The detective dropped it to examine John, his eyes reading him like other people read books. John had the inexplicable urge to ask what genre he was.

“You’re becoming aroused.” Sherlock’s eyebrows furrowed. “You find the idea of me being ritualistically sacrificed sexually stimulating?”

“No, _no,_ definitely not. I find- I-” John took a steadying breath and tried not to blush. “-I’d like to shave you. If that’s something you’d enjoy. Not your head.”

“Oh.” Sherlock visibly processed the information. “I wouldn’t mind.” He examined John’s face again. “Does the request embarrass you? Why? Everyone has at least one fantasy or secret desire they find unspeakable. Unless they completely lack any and all imagination.” He said that last sentence like other people might have said ‘Unless they like to kick puppies.’

“Mycroft wants to penetrate Lestrade with his umbrella,” Sherlock added, ever helpful with his over-sharing.

_“What?”_

“That one’s a bit obvious, I suppose.” As usual, Sherlock made it sound as if anyone who’d spoken with the man even once would instantly know such a thing. “Lestrade wants to do the same to Mycroft, though I can’t see my brother agreeing without first plying him with a truly spectacular amount of alcohol. I’ve offered to help Lestrade in that endeavor but so far he’s been unappreciative of my proposal.”

“Stop. Just stop for a moment, will you? Mycroft and Greg are together? As in, together-together?”

“Yes, that’s what I just said.” Sherlock’s voice rose in irritation. John paid his dramatics no mind.

“For how long?” John tried to remember all of the awful things he’d said about Mycroft in front of Greg. There were quite a few in the past several weeks alone.

“Months, as far as I can tell.” Sherlock shrugged. “I can’t be certain of the exact timing since I deleted the discovery of their relationship from my hard drive…multiple times.”

“Bloody hell.” John rubbed at his forehead. If nothing else, he owed Greg an apology for the many horrid and grossly detailed revenge schemes he’d hatched while in his presence.

Though, Greg could have mentioned at _any_ time that Mycroft was his bloody…boyfriend? lover? casual fuck buddy? John was glad he didn’t keep his gun nearby, else Mrs. Hudson would have been complaining about more holes in the walls. He’d apologize to Greg and then chin the lying bastard. And then he’d buy him a sympathy card.

“Anything else of vital importance you’ve forgotten to mention?”

“I had a dream last month in which you held me down atop a police vehicle and came inside me while the entirety of Scotland Yard stood witness before inserting an anal plug and forcing me to crawl behind you in the nude.”

John’s mouth was suddenly unbearably dry. “What?”

“Ignoring your momentary focus on my brother’s relationship with Lestrade” -Sherlock looked as if he’d rather eat his violin than ever utter those words again- “We were discussing sexual fantasies and secret desires. My dream is relevant to the topic at hand.”

“Right.” John cleared his throat. “You’d want that? Me, holding you down, atop a police vehicle and-”

“No.”

“No?”

“The contents of my dream made me aroused, but in reality I wouldn’t want to be degraded in front of anyone I come into contact with regularly. Certainly not in front of the likes of _Anderson._ ” Sherlock’s I’d-rather-eat-my-violin face was back.

John tried to tell himself he wasn’t disappointed and that Sherlock crawling around with John’s come plugged up inside him wasn’t the most delicious image to have ever snuck its way into his mind.

Catching his gaze, Sherlock said, “I wouldn’t be opposed to a similar scenario in a different location, though I would request we both wear masks if other people are to be involved. Wouldn’t want to draw even more attention to ourselves.” Their old argument about the media focus was blatant in Sherlock’s tone.

John tried not to think about the woman at the sex shop. “We’ll set something up once we’re married.”

“We’re not married yet. If you need to relieve yourself-” Sherlock’s gaze dropped to John’s pelvic area “-with someone else, I won’t mind.”

That was a lie if John had ever heard one. Sherlock got upset when he went to visit his sister’s house for a few days during the holiday season. The idea of Sherlock being ok with him sleeping around was more than a little laughable. He wondered if this was Sherlock’s attempt at being accommodating.

John mentally shuddered and hoped he was being tested. Yes, that was probably it. If nothing else, Sherlock had proven over the past week of his “demands,” that he required reassuring on the strangest of topics. This was a test and not Sherlock completely failing at relationships, albeit to his own suffering for once.

“I’m not having sex with anyone but you, and I would appreciate it if you didn’t say things like that anymore.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes but John could tell he’d said the right thing. “Sentiment.”

“Sentiment.”

===============================

“I’m not what one would consider sexually active even without my new suppressant,” Sherlock said out of the blue two days later.

“I know,” John said as he continued typing.

He’d finished his blog entry about Sherlock’s exotic deaths yesterday and had by now moved on to typing up the last few pages of _The Further Adventures of Sherlock Holmes._ It’d be ready to go to his editor in a couple of weeks, so long as Sherlock didn’t get a hold of it and end up sulking all over the sofa until John changed certain disliked passages.

It still surprised him that people were willing to pay money for what was essentially his blog but more polished. It _did_ have unpublished extras, but nothing he’d have personally thought worth fifteen quid. Though, at least now fans had something for them to sign when they came rushing up to them on the street. It had been awkward the first time someone had handed John a homemade scrapbook filled with blurry pictures and newspaper clippings.

“You do?” Sherlock asked.

The surprise in his voice was enough to cause John to pause and turn towards the sofa. What had they been talking about again? Ah, yes, sex. John’s most _favorite_ topic of late. He watched Sherlock toss a pack of cigarettes into the air, catch it, and then toss it again.

“Yes, of course.” John wasn’t stupid.

For once it was Sherlock who looked confused. He stopped throwing the cigarettes in favor of turning his head towards the desk, momentarily giving John his full attention.

“You’re a thirty-five year old Sub, a rather good-looking one I might add, whose Head of Family allows him to do whatever the hell he wants-” except marry “-but you’re still a virgin. There’s tons of other Subs who’d die to sleep with you and probably even some Doms who’d be willing to take the risk. From that evidence, I deduce that you’re not much into sex. It’s fine.”

The look Sherlock gave him was enough to have him feeling like some sort of newly discovered bacteria or perhaps even a new type of tobacco ash. John felt rather special in that moment, if he was honest with himself.

“I could provide you with oral sex. I know Mycroft’s given consent for physical contact, so long as you keep your cock away from my arse.” Sherlock sent John an accusatory glare.

John ignored it. He was hardly the type of bloke to enjoy himself when his partner couldn’t, and he didn’t feel the least bit guilty about “forgetting” to inform Sherlock of his permission.

He did wonder where the hell Sherlock’s sudden interest in sex had come from, and could only conclude that he was trying to give John some kind of messed up “reward” for being fine with his lack of sexual appetite – his own Sherlockian way of showing his happiness without actually having to say he was happy. John gritted his teeth and manually pushed his lips into a smile. Sherlock wouldn’t understand where his anger had come from even if he could explain it without punching something, so there was no point in expressing it.

“Did he tell you that himself?” John asked, forcing himself to focus on the _other_ part of Sherlock’s sentence lest he throw his laptop at the wall. John tried to imagine why Mycroft might have told Sherlock, but failed to come up with any logical reason for why _anyone_ would think that was a good idea. Not that Mycroft was being very logical of late, the bastard, but he was certain to know Sherlock would throw the temper tantrum of the century once he found out. Surely, his vendetta against John wasn’t enough to risk _that._

“I found a copy of the paperwork whilst browsing through his desk.” Sherlock said casually, as if that was something people did every day – break into highly secured offices to leisurely browse through the belongings of one of the most important men in the world.

“When did you browse through his desk?” John couldn’t recall Sherlock leaving the flat any time in the past two days. In fact, when he’d not been enjoying himself by making John do the most ridiculous things, he’d been shouting his boredom at the walls. Their lack of interesting cases of late was _clearly_ the walls’ fault.

“I got bored last night while you were sleeping,” Sherlock said, shrugging.

“Of course you did.” Heaven forbid Sherlock would maybe, just _maybe,_ take that as a sign that he should go to sleep as well. Like a normal human being.

“Stop trying to change the subject, John-” John hadn’t been aware they’d had a particular subject “-Would you prefer that I provide you with oral sex or masturbation?”

John’s lips scrunched up to his nose as he pretended to think about it. “…Neither.”

Sherlock’s brain appeared to short-circuit. John’s brilliant detective opened his mouth and then closed it again without saying anything. His eyes darted about the room before landing on the skull, as if it might give him some advice as to what he should say next. John sincerely hoped not.

Finally, Sherlock settled on, “A … foot…job?” His brows crinkled together, and he scanned John’s face for his reaction.

“Absolutely not,” John said, shaking his head.

“No?” Sherlock had the audacity to sound surprised.

“Nope.”

“Are you certain? I know you find my feet attractive. I could-”

“ _No._ I don’t want to do anything when I can’t reciprocate.”

“That doesn’t make any sense.” Sherlock’s hands rose from where they’d been resting on his stomach and threw themselves into the air. “What does it matter if you can or can’t bring me to ejaculation in turn? That doesn’t affect your enjoyment of my actions.”

“Actually, it does. Quite a bit.”

Sherlock’s face said he didn’t believe such an absurd claim. “I could order you.”

John chuckled. “You could, but I won’t obey. Though I haven’t spoken to your brother recently, I think this latest test is to see how far I’m willing to go to make you happy. I’m fairly certain you forcing yourself to do something that doesn’t interest you out of an obligation to me doesn’t count.”

“Pleasing you interests me.” Sherlock almost sounded hurt. John didn’t buy it for a moment.

“Then you won’t mind dropping this. Which is what would please me.” John smiled his victory smile.

Sherlock huffed and rolled over to face the sofa. He sulked for a few minutes before changing his mind and turning back towards John. “Read me your book.”

John’s eyes softened as a profound feeling of fondness hit him. He could do that just fine. The book was about his favorite subject, after all.

===============================

“John,” Sherlock said a few days later as he came into the kitchen.

“Hmm?” John opened the cupboard and studied the spices. He was doing some proper cooking for once: they’d both agreed that if they wanted to live to see sixty they probably shouldn’t be having take-out every other night.

“I have a new order for you.”

John sprinkled some cayenne pepper into the pan and secured the lid before turning away from the stove. Sherlock fiddled with a set of test tubes sitting on the table.

“I’m tired of this game,” Sherlock said, speaking down to the tubes. John could barely hear his voice over the sizzling of the food behind him. “I want you to order me. Like a Dom would order his Sub.” Sherlock’s body tensed, as if he was preparing for a blow. As if Sherlock expected him to laugh. _Laugh_ at the words John had been waiting to hear ever since he’d asked Mycroft for permission to marry.

No, that wasn’t quite right. He’d been waiting much longer than that. He’d been waiting years, when he thought about it. Ever since he’d first realized that Sherlock was a Sub. Even before he’d consciously acknowledged his plans to spend the rest of his life with the mad genius, there’d been tickle at the back of his mind telling him that they didn’t need anyone else to fulfill either of their needs if they had each other.

Thoughts of fulfilling needs had John fighting back the urge to zone Sherlock right then and there. He wanted to demand that Sherlock give him the names of everyone who’d made the Sub feel so inadequate. Because it’d been obvious for some time that someone had done _something_ to him, and John didn’t know if he could continue to brush it aside. People didn’t act the way Sherlock acted when they talked about love and relationships and sex and bloody basic control _needs_ with their future spouses. They just _didn’t_. Not unless someone had hurt them badly, and John really wanted to hunt them down and hurt them badly in turn.

John would never forget how _shocked_ Sherlock had been when he’d said he’d wanted to marry him.

He squeezed his fingers into his palms and took in a long, slow breath. The last thing he wanted was a forcibly zoned Sub, even if it would make his life so much easier. Sherlock didn’t deserve that. Besides, he wasn’t naïve enough to think that Mycroft hadn’t already taken care of the culprits most deserving of punishment. Possibly some of the bystanders too. At most, the British Government might have left John some scraps to play with, but that was hardly going to satisfy his need for bodily injury.

Sherlock’s hands gripped the test tube rack. “If you don’t want to-”

The panicked undertone of Sherlock’s words brought John back to the present with a jolt.

“No, I do. _Definitely,_ ” John cut in. Sherlock’s eyes darted to his fists. John forcefully straightened them against his trousers and held them there. “I’m not angry at you.”

“There’s no one else here.” Sherlock made it a point to glance around the kitchen.

John laughed. It wasn’t a nice sound. “I’m angry at- No, I’m bloody _furious_ with whoever made you think your _future husband_ would be upset because you wanted to be treated like a Sub. Which you bloody are!”

Sherlock’s focus rested on the chemistry equipment in front of him. “Why does this upset you? It’s in the past.” Sherlock’s cool gaze settled on him. “How does it affect you?”

There were so many different ways John could answer that, the least of which being that Sherlock felt the need to even ask such a question. Going for simple, John responded, “It affects me when people hurt you. Whether it’s right now or twenty years ago.”

“I don’t want to talk about it.” Sherlock’s body language told John that if he pushed right then, his Sub would probably flee in terror.

“Then we won’t. Just know that if I ever look like I randomly want to punch somebody, it’s not you. Probably.”

The tension flowed out of Sherlock. His lips twitched and John responded with a broad smile.

Stepping forward, John rested his hands on Sherlock’s hips. “Sherlock, my bloody brilliant Omega, will you be my Sub?” John asked, trying to get back to lighter topics of conversation. He doubted Mrs. Hudson would appreciate the furniture-throwing temper tantrum that was certain to result if John spent too long dwelling on Sherlock’s past.

The gratitude on Sherlock’s face was almost enough to break him. Black curls swayed as he nodded.

“We’ll have to lay down some ground rules, decide on our preferences, talk about our needs - that sort of thing.” John stepped back. He crossed his arms casually and leaned against on the counter, not wanting to crowd Sherlock’s space while they set up their agreement.

“Nothing serious in front of Mycroft.” A bored mask had made its way onto Sherlock’s face in an obvious attempt to cover his previous vulnerability. “However, I would prefer it if you could issue me simple commands as often as possible while in his presence.”

“All right.” John’s brows furrowed. That was an odd request to start with, and he could only guess at what Sherlock would consider ‘serious’ and ‘simple.’

“You know my brother, I’m certain you’ll be capable of using good judgement,” Sherlock answered his unspoken question.

“Right. And why am I doing this again?”

A mischievous smile graced Sherlock’s lips. “He _hates_ it when other Doms merely attempt to order me. He’ll be furious to see one of them succeeding.”

“Wants to keep you to himself, does he?” John asked, only half joking. He may have wanted to chin the bastard every time he so much as glanced his way, but he could admit that Mycroft was good about taking care of Sherlock when it counted. John had no doubt that the wrath of Mycroft Holmes would come down upon any undesirables that tried to order his baby brother around while in his presence.

“Yes. He’s not a terrible big brother all the time.” Sherlock actually sounded pleased. As pleased as he could ever sound when talking about Mycroft, at any rate.

“Just most of the time,” John quipped. They shared a moment of amused understanding. “Any other preferences?”

“For those at the Yard-” Sherlock shifted his weight from foot to foot “-I would find it acceptable if you made it known I was yours.”

“But don’t over-dominate you in front of them,” John said, instantly understanding where Sherlock was going with the conversation. “And no humiliation.”

Sherlock nodded. “You understand how it might cause … difficulties.”

Difficulties such as John’s foot in Sally’s arse if the woman thought he’d let her get away with making a fuss over Sherlock’s submissive needs.

“Otherwise I don’t have any specific requests.”

John doubted that, but he wasn’t going to push him for more when he’d only just gotten Sherlock to talk about his needs for the first time.

“How should I behave in public?” John asked.

“Obviously dominant but not overbearing.”

The swiftness of Sherlock’s reply had him feeling uneasy. They were going to be in trouble if Sherlock refused to share needed information without prompting. Maybe he could find Sherlock a preference sheet to fill out. He’d print it off and leave it lying about, just in case Sherlock felt more comfortable without him standing there waiting for answers.

As it was, John had no idea what Sherlock meant by ‘obviously dominant.’ What the detective considered to be obvious was often not so obvious to everyone else, but he figured they’d work on it as they went.

“Punishment?”

“I’m not fond of pain, but the dominance of punishment arouses me.” A pinched expression crossed Sherlock’s face. “That was before my new medication, of course. I really must switch back to the old one. If you would allow me-”

 _“No,”_ John said, his voice hard. A shiver flowed through Sherlock, but John didn’t let up. He continued to stare him down, silently telling Sherlock that if he even so much as _thought_ about going behind John’s back and changing his medication himself, there would be hell to pay. He did not regularly save Sherlock from his own bloody stupidity just so the “genius” could sneak off when John wasn’t looking and cause damage to his body by switching his heat medication mid-dose.

Sherlock lowered his eyes: he’d heard John’s unspoken order and would obey.

A rush of pleasure washed through John as he realized that that had been their first true interaction as Dom and Sub. That Sherlock was _his Sub_ now. He wanted to rush over and devour Sherlock’s mouth as it all hit him, but he refrained, knowing they had to get through their initial control agreement if they wanted things to run smoothly between them.

“Continue,” John said, keeping his voice soft so that it didn’t come out as a command. He had the urge to order Sherlock, to make him do something, _anything,_ but control agreements ended up being rather one-sided when the Dom became overbearing during negotiations.

“I would enjoy incorporating regular punishment into our lives. During sexual activities would be ideal, though not required.” Sherlock’s gaze drilled deep into his soul. “I know you won’t take advantage of our relationship, so whatever you deem appropriate is a suitable non-needs punishment.”

“There has to be some sort of limit. Is there anything you know you can’t stand?” John refused to do anything that Sherlock hated, even if it was a non-needs punishment meant to actually punish.

“I wouldn’t know. My parents handed over control of my punishments when I was eight, and Mycroft prefers the paddle. It doesn’t matter. You’re hardly about to bring out the whip and anything less than that I can handle.”

John could tell he wasn’t going to get anywhere with this line of questioning, the damn stubborn bastard.

“How about this then: we’ll decide on a handful of safewords for different levels of discomfort. You’ll use them _whenever_ you want, at any time of day or night, for any reason. This includes non-needs punishments.”

“I did take a basic sexual education course, John. I know how safewords work.” Sherlock rolled his eyes. “I’ll create a list. The names of famous scientists should be odd enough to suffice.”

John held up a hand before Sherlock could run off to do just that. “How about something simple? Green, yellow, red?”

Sherlock looked put out, but nodded anyway. “I suppose that would be acceptable. One never knows when a scientific discovery might be realized, so perhaps the names of famous scientists aren’t as unusual as would be required for the situation.”

“Actually, how about we add one: ‘Newton’ for whenever you’re fine but you need to stop because you’ve just had a breakthrough on a case or just realized you left your Bunsen burner on or some other ridiculous Sherlock thing.”

“Acceptable.” Sherlock stared at him for a moment before adding, “I doubt there’s anything else of significance we need to discuss. Could we … begin now?”

John sighed. They’d not even begun to cover everything they needed to, but he supposed there’d be no great harm if this part of his life was as unconventional as the rest. While most Subs would balk at the mere idea of allowing their Dom to take care of their needs without first creating an initial control agreement, Sherlock apparently couldn’t be bothered with the details. He’d have to get Sherlock that list as soon as possible.

John swallowed as he thought of what he could order Sherlock to do. With few preferences given, almost nothing was outside the realm of possibility at the moment, though he could guess at some of Sherlock’s unspoken desires. His mind scrambled through the endless options to find something simple to start with, yet dominant enough to satisfy them both.

“On your knees.” John indicated the floor with his eyes. “You can sit there and watch me finish dinner.”

Sherlock made a noise. “That’s going to be tad difficult, considering the inedible mess that should have been food.”

John snapped his gaze to the right to see that the stove had been on the entire time. He lifted the lid to see exactly what Sherlock had described.

“You didn’t think to warn me?” John poked the … thing with a fork. Yep, that was definitely disgusting.

“I forgot.” Sherlock’s tone indicated that it’d been less a problem of memory and more one of disinterest to the point of not caring.

“Take away it is,” he said, more to himself than to Sherlock. He placed the lid back over the poor, blackened thing and said a silent prayer before turning around. He found the Sub sitting on his heels, hands palm-down on his thighs, eyes downcast. Perfect submissive position.

“You’ve done this before?” He stared at the wall above Sherlock’s head as he tried to recall any time Sherlock had kneelt for _anyone_. He had the feeling that if the Queen herself ordered it, Sherlock would merely roll his eyes and call her dull.

“I researched.”

“Why am I not surprised?” John asked, shaking his head.

Walking over, he pulled Sherlock’s chin up so he could bend to give him a kiss before he left to see if he could find his mobile in the confetti-covered disaster area that was their living room.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What'd you think? I hope this chapter isn't too boring. :( It's sort of "Part One" of Mycroft's latest challenge, though the chapters from here on out should (hopefully) flow a little smoother anyway & not necessarily be as episodic.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the wait. Hope you all like it! Once again edited by Megabat! Thanks as usual!  
>   
> 

_Dear Mr Holmes, I think someone has stolen my favorite dildo-_

“Nope.”

_sherlok homes ive hurd ur a sub 2 wud u lk-_

“Definitely not.”

_Sherlock, let me run my tongue-_

“And that’s enough messages for today.” John snapped his laptop shut and set it on the floor to his left, figuring it was in no more danger there than anywhere else in the living room. The curtains Sherlock had melted last week in a pique of boredom could testify to that.

“John.”

John turned towards the location of the voice. Sherlock stood at the entrance to the flat, his arms behind his back and his eyes watching him with a level of scrutiny that told him he was being judged. On what, he had no idea, though the absolute stillness of Sherlock’s posture worried him more than a little.

“I found something in your room.”

John opened his mouth to respond, realized he had nothing to say in response, and closed it again. Oh shit. Sherlock had found the arse. He knew he should have tossed it into the Thames for some poor sod to find one day while raking the bottom for bodies.

Sherlock’s eyebrows drew together at whatever expression was on John’s face. Probably one of complete and utter horror.

“Oh, I don’t mean the arse,” Sherlock said, pulling a hand from behind his back to wave it at him. “Though, I obviously found that as well, considering I know about its existence. Really, John, if you’re that desperate you should just fuck me between my thighs. I don’t mind.”

The idea of sliding his dick between Sherlock’s slickened thighs did things to certain parts of John’s anatomy. Things he really rather it wouldn’t, now that Sherlock had discovered his dirty little secret. John had no choice but to kill him and hide the body in the fridge. He’d get the arse a fake identity and together they’d escape to Argentina to live out the rest of their lives in hiding, forever fearful of Mycroft’s revenge should he find them.

Now Sherlock was _really_ examining him. John didn’t want to guess at the sort of faces he was making as he made plans for himself and his “special someone.”

“Problem?” Sherlock asked.

“Just thinking of how I’ll have to murder you and live out the rest of my days with only a fake arse for company.”

Sherlock’s lips twitched and John was glad to see him relax, his stance becoming more natural.

“Perhaps you could murder the arse instead and live out the rest of your days with me. I’m hardly one to judge your toys while the arse has questionable preferences. You should see the things I have back at the cottage.”

Yes, John would very much like to see Sherlock’s collection one day.

“You’re a Sub. It’s expected for you to have toys. People might talk if they find out about my arse.” John mentally shuddered at the thought of Greg finding it one day while on a “drugs bust.” Then again, if the other Dom truly wanted to penetrate Mycroft with his umbrella, he was hardly one to judge.

“People do little else,” Sherlock said, shrugging. They shared a smile.

“Well, considering the fact that not even you could gracefully hold a complete fake arse behind your back with one hand, I’m going to deduce that you have the collar.” Sherlock went still. “May I put it on you?” John was treated with the heartbreaking sight of Sherlock’s relief - his shoulders slumped, but not in defeat, and the tension around Sherlock’s mouth shifted into a smile, shy and still vaguely uncertain, but a smile nonetheless.

“Yes.” Sherlock pulled the collar from behind his back and glided over to John. Sherlock hesitated a moment before dropping to his knees in front of John’s chair. He held the collar out with both hands as if gifting him with Excalibur.

Sherlock’s fingers had been wrapped around the bell so that it’d made no noise but now it tinkled as John took it. He shook it purposefully and then felt silly for his choice in collar when a semi-loud jingling resulted. It was childish in retrospect and not at all in-line with Sherlock’s sophisticated image. When he bothered to maintain that image, at any rate.

“It’s fine,” Sherlock said quickly. “It appears to be pet-related. I…” Sherlock looked down towards John’s stomach. “I wouldn’t be averse to completing the outfit on occasion. Ears, tail … You understand the idea.”

Heat curled itself between John’s legs, as if a cat had jumped onto his lap and made itself at home. A big, Sherlock-shaped cat. “We can go to the store together. Buy some new toys. And, you can pick out a more practical collar whenever we’re next out of the flat. Your tailor should have some nice ones you can wear out in public.” Nice and unreasonably expensive, but John wanted Sherlock to be happy when it came to such an important item.

“I don’t want to _pick out_ another collar. I like _this_ one. It’s practical enough.” Sherlock stared at John’s stomach so hard, he expected to feel the onset of indigestion at any moment.

John threaded fingers through Sherlock’s hair. “Then you’ll wear this one.” He felt Sherlock’s exhale against his trousers. “How about I put it on you now?”

“I don’t require constant confirmations. My Control Level is lower than you seem to believe.”

“But not that low.” If John were to guess, Sherlock was probably somewhere towards the upper-medium part of the Sub section of the control scale, if not the lower-upper. “And we haven’t reached an initial control agreement yet.”

“If I find something you say or do objectionable, I’ll tell you, and if it gets out of hand, I’ll use one of our safewords,” Sherlock said. John knew he was just barely resisting rolling his eyes.

John didn’t _want_ Sherlock to use his safewords, but he could tell Sherlock was going to be stubborn about it, so he didn’t argue. However, he couldn’t imagine a worse way of starting off a relationship than by immediately assuming what his Sub wanted, even if he did feel like he knew Sherlock better than he knew himself sometimes.

“Do you _want_ me to be more assertive?” John asked. He took hold of Sherlock’s chin and tilted his gaze upwards, for whatever good it might do him. Sherlock was master class when it came to lying, but he hoped his Sub would at least be honest about something as important as setting up their terms of control.

“Yes,” Sherlock answered without hesitation. “Preferably right now.”

John rolled his eyes at Sherlock’s pushiness, though he couldn’t help a slight twitch of the lips. He bent down and pressed a kiss to Sherlock’s lips. They parted obediently for him without John asking. He spared only a moment to realize this was an awful idea before plunging his tongue in and taking control. Sherlock was silent and still during it, but breathless and flushed when they pulled apart so John took it as a sign of victory.

“Would you like me to use my mouth? I’ve practiced on my dildos,” Sherlock said, his eyes at perfect height with John’s cock, which was rapidly hardening beneath the fabric of his trousers.

 _“No,”_ John said, using a hint of his zone-ability. Enough to make Sherlock realize how serious he was without actually zoning him. Sherlock’s pupils dilated in response. “I’m not going to have sex with you until you can enjoy it. Do you understand me, Sherlock?”

“Yes…” Panic flashed across Sherlock’s face as he tried to deduce the correct honorific.

“John.” While it’d been fun to have other low level Doms call him ‘Sir’ in the past, and even ‘Master’ on one memorable occasion, such titles didn’t suit his perception of Sherlock, and the last thing he wanted was to change his mad detective.

“John.” Sherlock closed his eyes and took in a deep breath before releasing it slowly, as if testing the scent of the word.

John took hold of Sherlock’s chin again and this time pulled him up for a kiss rather than lowering himself to Sherlock, as was more proper for their current positions of Dom and Sub. It was chaste, even with Sherlock hovering over his semi-erection. Sherlock’s lips left his, but the Omega didn’t sink back to his knees straight away, instead holding himself on the chair arms. They stared into each other’s eyes until Sherlock lowered his gaze to John’s lips. His desire for another kiss was blatant, but Sherlock didn’t try for one, despite their faces remaining mere centimeters from each other. As the Dom, it was John’s duty to lead the session.

“I’m going to buy you a tag to wear with your bell. Something with my name on it so everyone will know you belong to me. ‘Property of John Watson’ has a nice ring to it, don’t you think?”

Sherlock’s breath caught in a sharp hitch. His following swallow was practically audible. “Yes, John. _Please._ ”

John’s eyebrows shot up. Well then, perhaps Sherlock’s CL really was lower than John had originally thought. He pushed Sherlock back to his heels, more comfortable with physical control now that he was starting to get a better picture of what Sherlock needed from their relationship.

“For now, let’s see how this looks by itself.” John took hold of the collar and wrapped it around Sherlock’s neck.

“Tightly.”

John paused in his buckling of the loop, and Sherlock’s shoulders tensed so quickly John was worried he might have hurt him for a brief moment. Holding the collar with one hand, he ran the other through dark curls as he realized the reaction was due to Sherlock’s own outburst. Sherlock pressed his face against John’s leg, forcing John’s hand to follow or risk jerking Sherlock by the back of his neck.

“I’m not angry with you,” John said. He finished clasping Sherlock’s collar, tightening it as much as he felt comfortable with as a medical man. He moved the freed hand to Sherlock’s head so that both appendages were massaging the Sub gently. “Time for a rule from me. Well, two rules.”

Sherlock glanced up at him.

“First, you’re going to have a hell of a time getting over your habit of snapping out whatever comes to mind, so let’s just bypass that and say that you’re allowed to talk whenever you want, unless I give you the ‘silence’ command. Second, if whatever you have to say is about your needs, then I want what comes out of your mouth to be the truth. Do you understand me?”

“Yes, John.” Moving slowly, Sherlock pressed his lips to John’s knee, as if signing an agreement.

John didn’t believe him for a second. He’d known Sherlock for far too long to think that he wouldn’t lie if it suited his needs, and something deep in John’s gut told him that Sherlock lying to make John happy would suit his needs just fine. Something even deeper than that burned inside John at why that might be.

“Show me how you look,” John ordered, trying to draw his focus back to his Sub. Doms with wandering minds was Bad Relationships 101.

Sherlock moved his head from side to side and they both listened to it jingle. He was absolutely stunning. He’d be even more stunning if John could see the rest of his skin.

“Take off your clothing.”

Sherlock didn’t say or do anything but John just _knew_ he was amused. John rolled his eyes.

“I’m not going to have sex with you.” John leaned forward to whisper in Sherlock’s ear, “But you’ll be spending a lot more of your time naked once we settle into a routine. I want to be able to see my handsome Sub whenever I feel like it.”

Sherlock’s cheeks tinted in response and he murmured a soft, “Yes, John,” as he stood and removed his clothing.

John resisted the urge to sigh as Sherlock tossed his garments about the living room without a care as to where they landed. His shirt hit the precariously hanging sword and it came down like heavenly wrath descending from the sky. It stabbed the carpet with a horrible thud, and John had the feeling it was going to be hell to remove it. At least it was no longer waiting to murder someone, he supposed. Silver lining and all that.

He rested his hands on Sherlock’s hips once he was naked, merely taking in his Sub’s body. The flaccid cock before him was a bit of a disappointment, even if he knew it was the result of Sherlock’s medication and not his lack of interest. Raising his gaze so that he could look at Sherlock’s face, he squeezed hard enough to leave handprints on the pale skin.

Sherlock’s breath hitched and he arched forward at the touch. With John sitting in the chair, it brought distracting parts of his body temptingly close to John’s mouth and he was forced to push Sherlock back lest he lose control and randomly started giving him a blowjob. John’s own cock was bloody hard. It pleaded with him to just go ahead and use Sherlock in the filthiest way he could imagine. John silently told it to shut up.

“Kneel,” John ordered before he could do something he regretted.

Sherlock dropped to his knees and assumed the proper submissive position. John studied his Sub, and decided he didn’t much care for it.

“Hands crossed behind your back.”

Sherlock obeyed.

John pushed his legs open a tad wider with his foot. It gave him a pleasant view of Sherlock’s front, his small Omega cock nestled between his legs, ready for John’s touch should John desire it. Much preferable to the previous position.

“From now on, this is how I want you when I say kneel, understood?”

“Yes, John,” Sherlock said. His voice had lost its ever-present sharp edge of intelligence. The brilliant detective now sounded closer to someone willing to mindlessly follow his Dom’s every command than a man that solved impossible crimes on a daily basis. John bit his lip and pretended not to notice how that alone was enough to satisfy several fantasies. He shifted in his chair, and wished his trousers weren’t so bloody tight.

“Is this fulfilling your needs, Sherlock?” It certainly gave John a heady feeling.

“It would fulfill my needs more if you allowed me to suck your cock,” Sherlock said in a voice John knew was purposefully low and sexy. Sherlock lifted his gaze and dropped his eyelids so that the look he gave him was quite possibly the sultriest thing John had ever seen. He wanted to spank Sherlock due to the pure naughtiness of it.

“No, that would be if I _ordered_ you to suck my cock. I’m not stupid. I can tell what’s making you happy and what’s not.” John ran his hand through Sherlock’s hair again. His Sub leaned into the touch in a way that could only be unconscious.

“Then order me, John,” Sherlock said, almost whining. His face took on a pouty expression.

“You are the pushiest Sub to have ever existed.” John couldn’t be angry with him, even as he felt the usual exasperation kick in. He knew how _right_ it felt to have complete control. He could only imagine the desperation that came from being on the opposite end, waiting to completely lose it.

“You should meet Mummy,” Sherlock joked.

“I should,” John responded, only half-joking himself. The idea of meeting the Omega that had produced Sherlock was both fascinating and terrifying, but he really _did_ have to meet her before he married her son. If only to tell her what a pisspot her other offspring was, if nothing else.

“Please, John. Order me,” Sherlock begged, rubbing his face against the hard line of John’s cock.

John groaned and pushed Sherlock away. He tried to scowl but couldn’t make his expression properly angry. His infuriating Sub was driving him insane with his teasing, but that was just Sherlock being Sherlock, and the whole point of this whole ordeal was that he was unbearably fond of Sherlock, even with his maddening attempts to cocktease him into submission.

“You are the most ridiculous man I have ever met.” John pulled him up for another kiss. When they parted, he added, “And I love you more than you can possibly imagine.”

Sherlock’s face tinted pink. “I know.”

“Good. Now scoot back so I can stand up.” John rose from his seat as Sherlock did as he was ordered. Glancing over his shoulder, he watched his Sub as he walked into the kitchen. “Back into position. Keep your eyes down.”

Sherlock slipped his hands behind his back and opened his legs a little more. John knew the curiosity had to be killing Sherlock as John made a show of rummaging around the kitchen as if he didn’t know what he was looking for, but his Sub was good. He kept his gaze downwards, or at least managed to move faster than John did when he darted his eyes over at random intervals to check on Sherlock’s obedience.

“Finding” what he needed, John walked back into the living room. He groaned a little as he knelt down, his erection pressing painfully against his trousers. Taking the salt, he carefully sprinkled it around Sherlock, getting as close to his skin as possible.

“John-”

“Silence.”

John continued to sprinkle the salt until Sherlock was outlined like some strange murder victim. “Now then, I’m going to go have a wank and you’re going to sit here, just like this, and remain completely silent. If I think that you have moved even a centimeter, you will receive twenty smacks from the paddle for disobedience. If you’ve been good and haven’t moved, you’ll receive ten smacks from my hand for being an overly pushy Sub who won’t take no for an answer. How does that sound? Answer me.”

“Wonderful.” Sherlock all but breathed out the word.

“Good boy,” John said, standing.

Sherlock sucked in a little intake of breath, and John couldn’t help but smirk.

=====================================

John listened to the soft tinkling coming from the living room as he read through comments on his blog at the kitchen table. Or, he read through as many of them as possible without going completely mad. While his personal blog posts tended to generate a few hundred comments, ones about Sherlock could bring in thousands and actual cases sometimes peaked in the tens of thousands.

Even before he’d published his first book, it’d been too much to keep up with and so he didn’t often respond to anyone anymore, but the comments were quickly becoming a great place to get potential cases, so he still tried to read them on occasion. Sometimes they got cases from people who didn’t realize they were offering them cases. Despite his continued annoyance at the fact that people much preferred John’s blog to his website, Sherlock loved to peak over his shoulder while he was reading and point out the obvious child molesters and wife-beaters and rapists and so on. They’d even solved an international murder spree once and brought justice to families in five different countries.

Not that Sherlock had cared about that, of course. All he’d wanted was for John to praise him for his brilliance while he preened under the attention and simultaneously pretended he to be annoyed by the continuous acclaim for actions he deemed common. John had been happy to oblige.

John paused in his scrolling when he noticed the noise had stopped. “Sherlock?”

“I’m fine,” Sherlock snapped back. A moment later: “This doesn’t make any sense! The evidence clearly points to the victim freeing himself without any tools but I’ve yet to find a way that’s physically possible.” There was a particularly violent jingling from the bell, and John could only imagine what Sherlock was trying to do to himself at that moment.

John rose from his chair and turned around to lean against the kitchen table. Sherlock was currently investigating a case given to him by the Bedfordshire Police, which meant his mad detective was at that moment bound with tight ropes and wriggling around on the floor like a caterpillar. John swallowed and willed himself to find the sight _ridiculous_ and not at all arousing.

It wasn’t working out that well. His self-control failed him like the faulty thing it’d become of late and he felt his face faintly heat. It was the reason he’d decided to sit in the kitchen with his back turned to Sherlock in the first place.

Sherlock’s head slammed against the carpet as he gave up with an angry final jerk. His chest rose and fell at a rapid pace while he scowled up at the ceiling as if it was somehow its fault. John made a mental note to hide his gun again lest Sherlock attempt to take revenge upon it during one of his manic frenzies.

“Well then, that was entertaining. Time to untie you,” John said, glancing at his watch.

“What? No. I haven’t figured it out yet.”

“Sherlock, you’ve been at this for hours. I think it’s safe to say the victim knew something you didn’t.”

Sherlock visibly bristled at his words. “The victim was an elderly man who spent the majority of his time talking to _walls_.”

John eyed the skull sitting on the mantel of the fireplace. Sherlock really wasn’t one to be making judgments based on the inanimate objects people talked to. “So long as the walls didn’t start talking back, he was fine.”

Sherlock glowered at him and strained against his bonds once more.

Sighing, John walked the few steps into the living room. Sherlock stilled as John stepped over him, a foot on either side of his legs. His eyes widened as John got down onto his knees and pressed his hands to the floor on either side of Sherlock’s shoulders. Their faces were but a few centimeters apart, and John could feel Sherlock’s breath quicken as it blew out across his skin.

“John,” Sherlock said. The genius’ brilliance failed him as he apparently had nothing more to say. John’s attention focused on the movement of his throat as he swallowed. The bell shifted the tiniest bit, not even enough to make a sound.

“Now then, here’s what’s going to happen,” John said, his own breath ghosting over Sherlock’s lips as he spoke. “I’m going to untie you and then I’m going to look at what you’ve done to yourself. You’re going to have sores from all your thrashing, so I’m going to apply some medication to the worst spots. If, during all this, you are obedient and not _completely_ difficult, I’m going to take you to Angelo’s, where you will show everyone your lovely new collar.”

John watched Sherlock carefully. While his Sub had been flaunting his collar all around the flat, and then all around the Bedfordshire Police building when they’d finally been presented with a case Sherlock had deemed interesting enough to leave 221b over, this would be his first time showing John’s claim to anyone they already knew.

One of Sherlock’s fast, but true, smiles of unexpected pleasure flitted across his features.

“You’re going to become aroused again if you keep this up,” Sherlock said, because he couldn’t resist vocalizing his deductions the instant they came to him. _Ever._

John blinked and then they were both giggling like the _manly_ chaps they were.

Getting himself under control, John said, “Yes, well, I suppose it’ll be worth it if it can get you to stop your madness for a bloody minute.”

Sherlock smirked. “Admit it, you enjoyed watching me squirm.”

“For more reasons than one.” There were people out there that would pay good money to see Sherlock Holmes struggle with a bit of rope.

Sherlock’s brows drew together as he tried to figure that one out and John couldn’t help but lean forward and kiss them. They smoothed out underneath his lips, causing John to smile against Sherlock’s skin.

“All right then, let’s see if we can’t get this bloody thing off you,” John said, sitting up and placing his weight on Sherlock’s thighs for the moment. He took hold of his shoulders and eased him up as much as the tight rope would allow.

They’d ended the rope at Sherlock’s upper body in case a quick release was needed. Sherlock had whined that that was not how the suspect had tied the victim, and that John was interfering with the accuracy of his experiment, but John hadn’t budged. For all the times they both wound up tied to something, it hadn’t escaped his notice that they did not have the proper supplies to quickly cut someone free should the unexpected occur.

“John, am I … have I been … it occurs to me that we’ve spent an unequal amount of time focusing on my needs rather than your own. We haven’t discussed what you desire from me. If my research is to be believed, this is something we should remedy as soon as possible.”

Now John stared at Sherlock, but the other man appeared to find the kitchen very fascinating at that exact moment. Keeping an arm around Sherlock’s shoulders to hold him upright, John reached out and turned his face towards him. “You fulfill my needs just fine.”

“Your high CL would indicate otherwise. Surely you need more from our relationship.”

John shook his head, chuckling lightly at how silly Sherlock could be at times. “You really have no idea, do you? You go around ordering Doms like it’s the most natural thing in the world, including your own Head of Family. Who, quite frankly, is terrifying when you think about him for more than five minutes. The mere fact that you’re willing to get on your knees for me without hesitation is enough to satisfy me for a week.” John went back to untying Sherlock and soon his upper body was free.

Sherlock held out his arms and John pulled him up to a shaky standing position. Sherlock’s hand gripped at his good shoulder as he unwound his hips and upper legs. Once he was far enough along, Sherlock took over and finished up.

They stared at each other once Sherlock was free.

John reached out and jingled the bell on Sherlock’s collar. “Seeing you in this - knowing you’re mine - that’s all that I’ll ever need.”

Sherlock smiled his small, bashfully pleased smile. “Sentiment.”

“Sentiment.”

=======================================

John held out a hand as Angelo personally came to seat them. He wasn’t certain why he still bothered since they always had the same table by the window, but John knew he was the last person who should be commenting on people’s unusual devotion to Sherlock, so he didn’t.

Angelo shook his hand vigorously and then went for his usual Sherlock hug, but paused before completing the motion. He stood there with his arms outstretched, as if he’d forgotten how hugs worked. “Sherlock! Is that...?”

Sherlock practically glowed in response. “Yes.”

Angelo pulled him in for the hug, squeezing a little tighter than John thought comfortable, but for once Sherlock didn’t look annoyed at the attention. Letting Sherlock go, Angelo beamed up at the taller man. He returned it with something that John thought was supposed to be an attempt at boredom but ended up being Sherlock failing to hide his joy.

Sherlock glanced at John and indicated Angelo with his eyes. John followed his gaze but didn’t see anything of interest. Just Angelo. Sherlock turned his head away and let out an annoyed huff.

“John was just about to tell you all about it, weren’t you, John?” He looked back at John pointedly.

John blinked for a moment before it hit him. Oh, of course. Pure Traditionalists like Sherlock believed in the Dom introducing the Sub to new people - which John did anyway since Sherlock didn’t consider basic manners to be of any importance - and also in the Dom notifying previously known parties of the change in their relationship.

“Uh, yes. Yes I was,” John said. “Angelo, I would like to inform you that, uh-” Sherlock’s eyes narrowed. “That the collar was placed there by me. Sherlock is my Sub now. And I’m very pleased to let others know that.” John’s eyes were entirely for Sherlock by the time he had finished speaking, so he was able to see the quick quirk of his lips just before Angelo smushed John to his chest in a hug that could have incapacitated bears.

“Congratulations to you as well. Though, I knew it was your collar, of course.”

“Of course,” John replied, thinking back to the candle all those years ago.

Angelo showed them to their seat – as if they might have gotten lost when it was less than a meter away. “I’ll bring you some of my best wine to celebrate. On the house.”

“Thank you.” Another small smile hinted at the corner of Sherlock’s lips.

Angelo gave John a look of fatherly approval before darting off to the kitchen.

“Well then.” Sherlock opened the menu and not-so-subtly hid behind it.

“That was … nice,” John said. Yes, ‘nice’ was a good word for it. Eccentric would also work, but he tried not to use words like that when he was marrying a man that made a habit of buying up all the new perfumes every month and then sitting around sniffing them for hours as he memorized their scent.

“If you think people fawning over a perfectly normal, everyday construct of society is ‘nice’.” Sherlock’s feigned disapproval couldn’t be more obviously false if he wrote the truth on a napkin and taped it to his forehead.

“I do,” John said, scanning his own menu, though he knew what he wanted already, “I didn’t lie. I like people knowing you belong to me.”

“We could visit Lestrade after we’ve finished. He might have a case for us.” Sherlock made it sound as if he was just humoring John’s wishes.

John checked his watch. “It’s gone seven. He’ll already be at home.”

“The mortuary, then. Molly stays there late. No doubt trying to drown her loneliness in idle conversation with cadavers. Well, when I say ‘conversation’…”

“Sherlock,” John reprimanded.

Angelo chose that moment to return, bringing them their wine and glasses. And a candle. He winked at John.

“Angelo, the Agnolotti for me, if you would,” Sherlock said, closing his menu.

“I’ll have the Ciceri e Tria. Thanks.”

Angelo nodded and took off with their menus.

They sat in comfortable silence for a few minutes. John watched his husband-to-be, who was peering out the window, watching the street.

“I filled out a preference list for you,” Sherlock said, taking out a few folded papers from his pocket. He placed them on the table without turning away from his people-watching.

John stared at it dumbly. His mind scrambled to keep up with the abrupt new topic while at the same time trying to decide what to do with this imposter that clearly wasn’t Sherlock Holmes.

“You filled out a preference list?” John asked in disbelief. He hadn’t gotten around to picking one yet to present to his Sub.

Sherlock let out a sigh that clearly said John was an idiot. “It’s obvious you wanted me to; your browser history speaks for itself.”

John’s face twitched at the mention of Sherlock stealing his computer _again_. He couldn’t be terribly angry with him, though. He’d been trying to find a list that was detailed enough to give him a good idea what his Sub wanted, without being so detailed as to potentially scare him away from filling it out at all. Sherlock finding one he liked himself saved John a load of hassle.

“I’ll fill one out for you too, so we’ll both have one.”

“Yes, and then we should staple them to the wall so that when my annoying brother decides to drop by unannounced he can read all of the things I want you to do to me.”

John snorted. “I’ve no problem with that.”

He flipped through the pages, raising his eyebrows occasionally as something unique popped out at him. Considering how much Sherlock ignored his usual pestering about the shopping and the cleaning and pretty much all of the daily chores of living, John wouldn’t have thought he was interested in being lectured about his misbehavior. Several other checked items John already knew about or could guess at – such as the punishments and the private humiliation scenes. The praise kink was a given.

Getting to the last item on the list, John concluded that when you put them all together, Sherlock mostly needed his attention in various forms. Luckily enough, John’s favorite thing to do was give Sherlock astronomical amounts of attention, so he found that an easy enough request to fulfill.

John looked up from the list to see Sherlock twirling his bell with an idle hand while he watched a couple outside arguing over a map. John wondered if he even realized he was doing it. Pulling out his mobile, he snapped a picture.

Sherlock turned towards him, his brows furrowed.

“To commemorate your first time being formally introduced with your collar,” John said, holding up his mobile.

“I was wearing it when you introduced me to the Bedfordshire Police.” Sherlock’s tone said he was exasperated with John’s “ridiculous sentiment,” but the way he tilted his head so that his collar was more visible told a different story.

“Yes, well, this is the first time that we’ve emphasized it. And I didn’t specifically tell them you were my Sub.”

“They assumed.”

John held up the phone and took another picture.

“Must you act like a lovestruck fool?” Sherlock said, sinking down into his seat as if he couldn’t bear to hold himself up while in the presence of such nonsense.

“We don’t all have Mind Palaces that we can store things in forever,” John said, taking another picture just to be a dick.

Sherlock huffed.

John flipped through the three photos, trying to decide which he wanted as his mobile background. He settled for the one with Sherlock toying with his collar. There was a special kind of enjoyment that came from the genuineness of an image taken when the subject was unaware of the camera.

About to close his phone, he paused as an idea came to him.

“Sherlock … can you still hack into your brother’s files?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The "preference lists" I mentioned are [real things](http://www.evilmonk.org/a/checklist.cfm?act=listcat) that I found while doing some BDSM research, though they go by many different names. Research which I subsequently didn't even use, I might add. OTL I thought they were really cool, though, and wanted to include them. 
> 
> FYI, I made a _tiny_ edit to the previous chapter regarding Mystrade. I realized while re-reading the entire fic that I'd implied previously that it was a fairly new relationship while at the same time saying it'd been going on for years in the latest chapter. Oops. Things like this are the reason I felt to needed re-read in the first place.
> 
> Anyway, let me know what you think! The infamous arse has been mentioned again! It shall continue to come up in the fic since people seem to like it. What I shall henceforth be known for, no doubt. "Have you heard of pt_tucker?" "Who?" "The person with the entire fake arse." "Oh yes, I've read that fic."


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow, has it been that long since I updated already? I _swear_ it seems like I just did it on Friday. O_o (Clearly pt is bad at estimating time.) Anyway, this _monster_ of a chapter is finally done  & I hope you all enjoy! 
> 
> As always, thanks again to my lovely beta Megabat!  
>   
> 

“Hello, Mycroft.” John slid into the seat across from the other Dom. He pursed his lips and wiggled around in the chair. It felt … different. The cushion was fluffy and not as worn as he remembered. He ran his hand across the silky smooth arm rest; he doubted it’d seen more than a month of use.

“Hello, John,” Mycroft answered. He jotted down something on the piece of paper he was reading, and gave no indication that he planned to otherwise acknowledge John any time soon.

“Is this chair new?”

Mycroft’s pen paused right in the middle of a word. There was a long moment of stillness - one in which John pondered whether or not it was a crime to accidentally break the British Government - before the ink started flowing across the page again in loopy, elegant strokes.

“Yes,” Mycroft said, sounding no different than if John had put a gun to his head and forced him to admit that he was a complete dickhead. Who knew inquiring about the man’s furniture could touch such a nerve?

John wished he’d taken the time to learn more languages as he attempted to read Mycroft’s paper, only to find it in an unfamiliar script. Damn. There went his plan to make Mycroft’s temples throb by commenting on his top-secret documents in the most inane and ignorant ways possible. He wiggled in his chair once more and then stopped as he took in the desk in front of him. _Really_ took it in.

“Is that a new desk?”

“Yes.” Mycroft continued to read and occasionally write in what John thought might have been Portuguese.

“Ah. I see,” John said. He scanned the office for a lack of anything better to do, noting all of the other changes to the room. The new lamps were of a similar design as the previous, but not the exact replicas that were the desk and chairs. Red curtains were a different shade than the originals, while the bookcases remained untouched. The same could not be said about the books themselves. “Did he _really_ destroy all your books?”

Mycroft closed the folder and placed the black and gold pen on top in a silent promise to return. “If you must know, he took them hostage. He’s informed me that I will not see them again until certain demands are met.” Mycroft’s thin-lipped smile was anything but happy.

“ _All_ of them?” John turned towards the larger bookcase behind him, but he didn’t recognize any of those titles either. Considering how much time he’d spent waiting in Mycroft’s office over the years he’d known Sherlock, he should have been able to name them off in correct order. “You didn’t replace them?”

“My brother has decided not only to ransom me, but also to punish me for my perceived misdeeds. If I replace them, he’ll put to use his key to my home.”

“Wouldn’t want him to run off with your umbrella collection.”

Mycroft glowered at him. “No, I would not. Shall we continue with this current topic of conversation indefinitely or was there something of importance we needed to discuss?”

“Judging by the fact that your books are still gone, and that there’s few things of yours that Sherlock would deem worthy of ransoming over-” Why ransom when his big brother gave him _almost_ everything he wanted at the slightest hint of desire? “-I’m going to assume that I already know the answer to my question, so I’m not going to waste my time asking. What I would like to know is how Sherlock got two, maybe three, hundred large hardcover books out of here without anyone noticing.” The window looked like it opened, but there had to be guards outside, even if John hadn’t personally encountered them. They wouldn’t just leave their British Government unprotected with such an obvious security flaw.

“That is precisely what I asked various members of the building’s security detail, right before I fired them.” Mycroft’s expression could freeze an active volcano. “Along a similar vein, I have made it known that if another successful attack on our computer systems should occur, there will be dire consequences for everyone involved. Whether this attack be by terrorists or overgrown children who feel the need to spread photographs of their bare bottoms across the entire network, will not make a difference.”

“Bare bottoms? Really? That sounds … awful.” John nodded in a show of false solidarity.

“I am not joking, John. You can inform my brother that hacking into classified government files is a crime punishable by life imprisonment. While I may be willing to look the other way, my colleagues will not be so generous should they discover the identity of our mystery hacker. To put it bluntly: get your Sub under control.”

John studied Mycroft. “Just like that? All these bloody ridiculous tasks you want completed before we can get married, each one more bullshit than the last. Then there’s your little medication trick, which practically invalidated your permission for Sherlock and I to have sex before it was even granted. Yet I don’t get so much as a dirty look for becoming Sherlock’s Dom? To be honest, I’m a bit disappointed.” John had come in prepared to fight over it, and now Mycroft was refusing to step into the arena.

“I was under the impression Sherlock wanted you to be his Dom. If this isn’t the case, then I’d be more than happy to give you something far beyond a ‘dirty look.’” Mycroft’s expression would have made a hardened serial killer turn tail and run. Luckily, John was neither hardened nor a serial killer.

“Sherlock wants you to allow him to marry. Enough to start taking it out on innocent bystanders, apparently.” John nodded towards the books. “You don’t care about that.”

Mycroft smoothed down his tie. “My brother wants many things, few of which are also what he needs.”

“And you decide what he needs, is that it?” John clenched his fist against his trousers. Mycroft’s eyes darted to it.

“According to the law, I do.” Mycroft’s gaze pinned him down before John could get up and see whether or not the other Dom had been bluffing when he’d threatened John with disappearance. “Sherlock has not always proven to make the wisest decisions when it comes to matters of the heart. I merely wish to make certain my brother is happy. Is that so hard to believe?”

“Considering some of the other things you’ve done? Yeah, a bit,” John said, though he couldn’t help but think of the unnamed people who’d hurt Sherlock. Mycroft deserved to be punched two, maybe five, times solely for the stunt he’d pulled with Sherlock’s heat medication, but the man did care in his strange way. John knew he’d taken care of the people whose abuse could still be seen in Sherlock today, and that was probably as much love as Mycroft was capable of showing. “I suppose you’ve got another task for me? For Sherlock’s own good, of course.”

Mycroft rolled his eyes and pulled his mobile out of his suit pocket. He made a big show of scrolling through it.

John wondered who he thought he was fooling. That power play might have worked on him when he’d first met the man in an abandoned warehouse, but by now he knew that Mycroft Holmes had the mental capacity to name every important dignitary in every country on the planet in order of current world power.

It would have been terrifying if it wasn’t so bloody annoying instead.

“It has come to my attention that my brother was almost … sacrificed.” His eyebrows rose as he read that entry. “On previous cases, he has suffered from cuts, bruises, broken bones, inappropriate touching…” His face blanked as he trailed off, and John realized he had no idea what had ever happened to that Alpha. “This is all in addition to his life being in constant danger. If I were to hand my brother over to you, I would expect that he be well-protected. So far, you don’t appear to be doing a very good job, if I may be so blunt.” He put the phone back into his pocket.

“You want me to stop Sherlock going on cases? That’s not going to happen.” Not unless Sherlock had developed Mycroft’s notorious laziness in the past three hours since he’d seen him at breakfast.

“No, it’s not. My brother enjoys them far too much. Unfortunately.” Mycroft grimaced. “Instead, I thought that you might participate in some additional physical training. Just to make certain you’re not losing your edge.”

John bit back a disbelieving scoff. His fitness level wasn’t _terribly_ below what he’d had in the service, and that was taking into account the problems caused by his shoulder. Running around London, tackling dangerous criminals, and generally getting himself in and out of trouble was good for the body. When he wasn’t getting kidnapped or shot at, that is. Or kidnapped _and_ shot at. Life with Sherlock helped maintain the skills he’d acquired under Major Sholto’s command and taught him new talents every day he spent with his future husband. In short, he was at the top of his game.

Mycroft’s eyes said he knew this. So, he was really just waiting to see what John would do in response to his blatant lies.

Instead of voicing any disagreement, John took the high road. “When do I start?”

Mycroft gave him a smile that might have petrified lesser men. Men who weren’t determined to marry Sherlock Holmes. Specifically, men who weren’t _still_ determined to marry Sherlock Holmes even after they’d watched him pull a worm out of the sugar bowl they had just used for their tea.

“Why not right now?” Mycroft asked, pulling a file out of his desk and handing it over to John. John opened it to find several official papers and a badge with his name and picture on it. “I’ve given you access to one of our local training facilities. Normally we would send you away for this sort of thing, but I fear Sherlock might disagree with that approach.” Mycroft ran his second and third fingers across the top of his new desk. “Inside your folder, you’ll find a training schedule. Try to stick to it as closely as possible.”

“You never know when a case might pop up.” John flipped through the papers to find the schedule. Nine-to-five every other day. Nice of Mycroft to allow him a day in between to catch his breath. Or, rather, a day in between to wrangle Sherlock so he didn’t destroy any more of his brother’s property.

“As I said, _try._ ”

“Hmm.” John scanned the last page. His “training” - AKA, Mycroft’s new torture - stopped after three months. It was nice to finally have a set end date for one of his tasks.

A soft beep from his pocket drew his attention away from the papers. Pulling out his mobile, he found a frantic message from Greg.

_Help. Sherlock on the loose. John Watson required at New Scotland Yard ASAP._

He typed up a quick, “Be right there,” and sent it off in an attempt to calm poor Greg’s nerves while he made his way over to New Scotland Yard. Speaking of Greg…

“So, you and Greg are together?” John asked. “That’s...” Mycroft narrowed his eyes. “…unexpected.”

Mycroft’s expression said he knew of all the things John had wanted to say instead. “I see my brother has finally decided to stop deleting our relationship.”

John might have felt slighted at the implication that he couldn’t have figured it out himself, if it hadn’t been true. He’d have never guessed Greg went for tall, dark, and bloody annoying.

“I suppose there’s only so many times someone can delete something before they eventually give up. Though, I am surprised he remembered the part about the umbrella.” John tilted his head up towards his right and scrunched up his nose. Why _hadn’t_ Sherlock deleted that?

Mycroft Holmes, the British Government, one of the most powerful men in the world and a certifiable genius, _flushed._ Whether it was from anger or embarrassment, John couldn’t tell, but he assumed that was his cue to leave either way.

“Sorry, Mycroft. Got to run.” John grabbed his folders and headed towards the door.

“At my brother’s beck and call, as always,” Mycroft called out his final parting shot.

John _really_ shouldn’t respond - certainly not with what wanted to say in response - but he just couldn’t help himself. Hand on the doorknob, he turned back towards Mycroft. “Not always. Last night I called to him, and he came crawling. Naked.”

Mycroft looked as if someone had shouted “diet!” in his face and run off with the cake he’d just been about to eat. John gave him a little goodbye wave before he passed through the door.

& & & & & & & & & & & & &

“About time,” Sally muttered as John passed her desk on his way to Greg’s office. He raised his eyebrows but didn’t pause to talk. He didn’t need to be Sherlock Holmes to know what she was on about.

Greg glanced up from his paperwork when John knocked on his open door. “Oh thank goodness ,” he said, throwing the documents on his desk.

“Been awful, has he?” John couldn’t help the twitch of his lips.

“‘Awful?’ I wish. He’s been a bloody nightmare from the moment he got here. Came in demanding a case to take his mind off his ‘stupid fat brother who should mind his own business.’” Greg made visible quote-marks with his hands. “Unfortunately, I don’t have any cases worthwhile at the moment or else I would have called him already. I finally distracted him with some old files I had laying around, but I don’t imagine they’ll keep him busy for very long.”

“Hmm, yes, speaking of Mycroft…” John crossed his arms and _looked_ at Greg. His friend stared back for a moment before he seemed to get it.

“Ah hell.” Greg ran a hand through his hair. “I didn’t mean to keep it from you, I swear. I figured Sherlock would have told you the instant you were within hearing distance. Everyone knows how he likes to spout off his deductions to anyone that will listen and you’re his favorite listener.”

“Apparently he draws the line at his brother’s sexual activities,” John replied helpfully.

“Well, yeah, _now_ I know that. By the time I realized you weren’t in the know, it seemed a bit awkward to mention it. What with all the threats of punching and kicking and unspeakable revenge.” Greg’s lips curled into a smile and John knew they were okay.

“Sorry about that. If I chin Mycroft again, I’ll try to do it when you’re not around, how’s that?”

Greg shrugged. “I should probably say something valiant and vow to protect his honor or something along those lines, but Mycroft can fight his own battles. And by fighting, I mean you’ll wind up living in an igloo in some unknown location that’s not listed on any map. Just try not to break anything. I like his face the way it is.”

John scrunched up his nose at the thought of anyone liking Mycroft’s face. The man was handsome enough, but he was _Mycroft_. “You have terrible taste in men.”

“Ha! _I_ have terrible taste? At least my Holmes doesn’t cover the kitchen floor in entrails and then flick acid at them just to see what will happen.”

…John really couldn’t argue with that. He winced, remembering how long it’d taken to clean up that particular mess. They’d had to neutralize the acid first, which had been more than a pain in the arse since Sherlock hadn’t seen fit to check that they had enough baking soda for the neutralization before he’d started. (They hadn’t.) Then there’d been horror that was the body parts themselves. Sherlock digging through some poor bloke’s intestines like it was Play-Doh still gave him nightmares sometimes. John had considered going back to his therapist and having a talk about it, but he was fairly certain she’d have them both sectioned.

“Point taken.” John scratched his nose. “But, at least Sherlock’s a Sub. How does it work between you and Mycroft?” Greg opened his mouth and John hurried on before he could convert the mischievous twinkle in his eye to words. “Not that I want to know _how_ it works. It’s just a bit odd, isn’t it? Mycroft’s Control Level is must be off the charts – the man _literally_ acts as a silent puppeteer to an entire country – but yours isn’t that low either.”

“No, it’s not.” Greg leaned back and put his feet up on the desk. He invited John to take the chair across from him with a wave of a hand, but John shook his head. “Mycroft’s control needs are higher than mine, but I’m certainly no Sub. As a result, we’ve had to compromise.” John put on an ‘Oh really?’ face. “To put it bluntly, we switch.”

“And that works?” Genuine curiosity tinged John’s voice, along with a fair amount of surprise.

There were people out there who were Switches, as well as people close enough to the line between Dom/Sub to feel comfortable stepping over it every once in a while. John himself had enjoyed his fair share of needs-fulfilment from people willing to act as his Sub for a short time. But long-term relationships between two people with similar CLs didn’t tend to end well. It was no different than people of different social or political beliefs realizing they just couldn’t make their differences mesh.

Only it was worse, because it wasn’t just a belief, but a physical, mental and emotional _need_. If Sherlock hadn’t told him that they’d been together for months, he’d have been advising Greg against his choice. Usually a relationship like theirs would have petered out by now if it was going to, so John told himself not to interfere

“For the most part,” Greg answered, drawing John’s attention back to him. He clasped his hands behind his head and shrugged. “We were a bit rocky at first, but Mycroft worked out a schedule based on how many hours we spend together.” John looked down as a snicker threatened to break free. “Hey! Don’t laugh! It works.”

“I’m sure it does.” John’s tone may have been teasing, but he had to admit there was some truth to his words. From what he’d seen of the man over the years, Mycroft had made efficiency into a hobby. He doubted he’d have abided any arrangement that didn’t fulfill its intended purpose and then some.

Greg rolled his eyes. “If one of us really needs it, we’ll allow him to be the Dom outside his turn, but that’s only happened a handful of times. To be honest, it’s not all chocolates and roses, but it’s not as awful as the general consensus would have you believe either. I think if you’re willing to compromise for the sake of your partner, it works. I mean, just look at you and Sherlock. Your CL is right up there with Mycroft’s, but you’re willing to play live-in assistant to a Sub. Not many Doms I know that’d do that. One might wonder how _your_ needs are being met.”

“It’s Sherlock,” John answered simply.

What more was there to say? He hadn’t been lying when he’d told Sherlock that the mere sight of him on his knees was satisfaction enough. While most other people saw the fulfillment of needs in absolutes – “I need a Sub who will call me Master” or “I need a Dom who will make me beg for everything” – John had always seen it in relation to the people themselves.

Sherlock knelt because _John_ told him to, and, in John’s opinion, the only thing more satisfying than knowing someone had chosen to follow his commands, and his commands alone, was knowing that Sherlock was satisfied in turn. Sarah had done a wonderful job of acting as John’s Sub on the couple of occasions they’d engaged in needs-fulfillment, but there had always been the thought at the back of his mind that he wasn’t satisfying her needs as well. He’d done his best to make up for it by giving her amazing orgasms – they didn’t call him Three Continents Watson for nothing – but it really wasn’t an arrangement he would have been content with long-term.

He had to give Greg and Mycroft points for making it work.

Greg nodded in agreement, almost as if he’d pulled a Sherlock and read his mind. “Nothing gets the blood pumping faster than doming someone like them, huh? It makes up for having to submit later on.”

“I’ll bet it does.” John imagined Mycroft on his knees, grey-blue eyes glowering up at him, and had to admit that the mental image was quite pleasing, even if the thought of Mycroft anywhere near his cock had him pressing back a shudder.

“Well then, now that we’ve had that little heart to heart, you want to go see if Sherlock’s terrorized anyone else today?” Greg asked, standing up and stretching. His movements were slow and leisurely. John figured he wasn’t in any big hurry to get back to Sherlock now that the crazed genius was finally engaged in something.

His expression turned mischievous. “I don’t know. We could always talk about the umbrella.”

Greg groaned. “Bloody Sherlock Holmes. Can’t keep anything to himself.” John stood to the side as Greg pushed past him. As he went by, John caught sight of a soft blush that had started to creep up the back of Greg’s neck.

They made their way through the sea of desks and down a series of hallways to arrive at a small room tucked neatly in the corner of the building. John almost ran into Dimmock as he pushed open the door. The other man startled.

“Hello, Dr. Watson. Lestrade. If you’ll excuse me,” Dimmock said, pressing a hefty stash of papers to his chest and squeezing past them.

“What was that about?” John asked, watching Dimmock scurry away.

“Just another one of Scotland Yard’s _finest._ ” Sherlock rolled his eyes and continued to shift through the photographs that were on the table in front of him. To the right and left of him were stacks of folders not more than ten high, though the bulk of papers inside each folder caused the left pile to rise up to his shoulders while the right one was half that.

“Solving some cases?” John flipped through a folder on the left. Sherlock snatched it from him and placed it back on the pile.

“I’ve already solved those. Give these ones your attention.” Sherlock pointed to the folders in the smaller pile. “Though I doubt they’ll be of any interest if the previous cases are any indication. Just more of Scotland Yard’s ‘detectives’ being oblivious to everyone and everything around them. And I do use the word ‘detectives’ lightly.”

“Sherlock,” John said at the same time Greg gave an indigent “Hey!”

His eyes swept them both before returning to his photographs. “It’s not my fault that everyone who works here is incompetent.”

John just sighed. “Sorry, Greg.”

“I’m used to it.” His scowl was completely lost on Sherlock, who continued to search for clues. “Anyway, before I leave you two lovebirds to it, why don’t you let me see your collar Sherlock?”

Said man paused in his examination. “My collar?”

“Yeah, your collar. Unnamed sources have informed me that you’ve got one, and I want to see it now that John’s here,” Greg said.

“I see my brother can’t help but stick his fat nose into everything,” Sherlock said, rolling his eyes.

“Well, I like his nose. It’s not fat at all.” Greg’s cheeky grin could have moved mountains. Sherlock looked like he had that time he’d decided to be _brilliant_ and lick one of his experiments. It hadn’t been one of his better ideas.

“Greg,” John said, stepping around the desk to stand by Sherlock, “I’d like to inform you that Sherlock is now my Sub.” He unwrapped Sherlock’s scarf and set it on the table. He laid a possessive hand on the back of Sherlock’s neck while the detective pretended to be immediately engrossed in studying a new set of photographs.

Greg leaned in to get a closer look. “That’s a nice one. Goes well with his outfits.”

“Yes it does. Not that John was thinking of that when he picked it out, but it’s a pleasant side benefit. We _all_ know why he chose this particular collar.” Sherlock drew his magnifying glass from his pocket and placed it against the trees in one photograph. His attention seemed to shift into genuine territory as he muttered at something only he could see before placing another photo next to it and repeating his actions.

“Oh? We do?” Greg gave John a playful wink.

Sherlock’s head snapped up. “Oh, please. Don’t pretend to be naïve. I’m entirely aware of the connotations brought about by putting a bell on someone. Clearly John thinks I need keeping track of like an errant pet.”

“You do.” John didn’t bother to deny it.

If Sherlock had been a cat, John was certain he would have chosen that moment to stick his tail up and saunter away in annoyance. As it was, Sherlock had to settle for picking the photos up so that he didn’t have to look at the two of them anymore.

“You’re a lucky Dom to have such a fine Sub. You best keep him on a lead in case someone tries to steal him from you.” With that, Greg departed.

John silently thanked his friend – _Sherlock’s_ friend – as pleasure tinted Sherlock’s cheeks and warmed the back of his neck. John came around the desk and lowered himself to give Sherlock a kiss full of demanding tongue and domineering lip-biting.

Sherlock’s eyes were wide and his pupils dilated when John pulled away to examine his work. The pink lips were puffy and well-used, which suited John just fine. He may not have been Sherlock’s husband yet, but that didn’t mean others couldn’t look at the Omega and know he belonged to him.

“My Sub,” John whispered into Sherlock’s ear, “I want you to show everyone your collar when we leave.” He placed a kiss on Sherlock’s jawline as he backed away.

Sherlock was completely still for a moment before he erupted in a flurry of movement. Photographs were thrown back into folders, which were then slammed together to make one giant stack and snatched up into Sherlock’s arms. His mouth started moving as soon he was standing and didn’t stop as he rounded the table.

“There’s nothing more Scotland Yard can offer on these cases. No reason to stick around and risk soaking in their incompetence. We can solve these just as well back at Baker Street.” Sherlock caught sight of John’s lips, which were pressed together so that he didn’t laugh at his Sub. “What?”

“Nothing. Nothing at all. I’ll just carry this for you.” John wrapped Sherlock’s scarf around his forearm. He blanked his face when Sherlock shot him a narrow-eyed look. “Shall we?” John indicated the door with his scarf-clad arm.

Sherlock’s suspicious look melted into complete blankness as he strode past John and into the hallway. His Sub’s head was held high as he made his way through the hall and then wove between the desks littering the main work room. Whispers broke out as people caught sight of Sherlock, or rather, as they caught sight of his collar. A few people even had the _subtlety_ to stop right in the middle of what they were doing to blatantly stare.

Unsurprisingly, Sally made it a point to walk into Sherlock’s path so that he was forced to either halt or mow her down. John would have preferred the latter, but it was in everyone’s best interest not to teach Sherlock he could just run people over when it suited him, so he kept his opinions to himself.

“What’s this, Freak? Got yourself a new collar?” She glanced past him to John. “Did someone put it on you or did you have to buy it yourself?”

Sherlock visibly prepared for battle.

John stepped forward. He gently tapped Sherlock on the upper leg as he brushed past him. Though it clearly pained his Sub to remain silent, Sherlock allowed John to do the talking.

“He’s my Sub, if that’s what you’re asking-” Sally opened her mouth to say something else. John continued before she could make that mistake. “-And, as far as I’m concerned, that’s all you need to know. Now, if you’ll excuse me, we have somewhere to be.” John looked her in the eyes and silently told her she would not like the consequences if she pushed him right then. The number of the people looking at them was doing things to the usually silent Alpha side of him. He’d been pushed into the middle of a show for gawking onlookers and felt pressured to assert his claim, either by dominating Sherlock in front of them, or zoning the hell out of Sally. Possibly both.

Sally stared at him for a moment before nodding and stepping to the side. John turned back and silently indicated for Sherlock to go first, a clear order that anyone in the room would understand. John heard someone whisper “About time someone took him in hand!” but he couldn’t pinpoint who’d said it, so he scowled at the group as a whole. Some of them actually shrank back.

“Sally,” Sherlock said as he sauntered past her. John followed behind, his instincts telling him to watch his Omega’s back.

Once they were outside, John turned towards Sherlock. He clenched and unclenched his hands, trying to calm his Alpha instincts, knowing logically that no one was going to challenge him for the right to fuck his Omega. At least not while Sherlock was giving off the scent of the chemical concoctions he’d been messing with all night, and not the addicting pheromones of heat.

“Was that okay?” John asked, hoping he’d not overstepped Sherlock’s boundaries.

“That was brilliant.”

&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&

The man – Mark Anslow according to his nametag - held the badge Mycroft had given John up to the light, turning it this way and that, before placing it directly next to John’s face. His eyes darted back and forth between John and the photo. Satisfied, he held up John’s regular ID and repeated the process before finally placing the badge and the ID card next to each other and scrutinizing them both as if he expected one or the other to pull a Harry Potter and start moving.

“Something the matter?” John asked, after what must have been a solid minute of ID checking.

Anslow eyed John one last time before shaking his head. “Sorry. We’ve been given a head’s up that you’re a close associate of Holmes, the younger. Little blighter makes a habit out of stealing people’s IDs. Thought I’d double-check just to be certain.” He handed John back his ID and badge.

“Can’t imagine there’d be many people wishing to sneak into a boot camp.” John slipped his ID card back into his wallet and attached the badge to the collar of his jacket.

“No, but I can imagine quite a few who’d love to sneak out by sending someone in their place. Apparently you’re ‘invaluable’ to that damned spoiled Sub, and I’m to expect at least one attempt to sneak you away to go play detective.”

“You know Sherlock personally, I take it.” John ignored the part about the sneaking since there really wasn’t anything he could say that wouldn’t be an outright lie. Sherlock may have been his _Sub,_ but that didn’t stop him from also being the shining star that John followed in even the darkest of nights. If Sherlock showed up, John would go with him.

“Unfortunately.” A look of such extreme distaste crossed his face that John thought for a moment he might have _literally_ swallowed a bug. “I’ve had the displeasure of overseeing his physical training before. Fucking babysitting was what it was. As if I don’t have anything better to do with my time than take over bloody Mycroft Holmes’ family obligation. Not that I could say no to the man, of course. Bastard’s considered so bloody important. My superiors practically shoved me in here at his ‘request.’ ‘Got to keep Mr. Holmes happy’ and all that rubbish. He doesn’t even have an official rank, you know.” Anslow looked ready to spit.

John’s lips quirked up into a smile, but it was one that would have left anyone with half a bit of sense beyond wary. “Must have been awful.”

“It bloody well was. Baby Holmes running all around the place like he owned it, spouting off his little deductions without a care for anyone’s privacy, breaking into areas he wasn’t permitted and making off with important equipment, and don’t even get me started on the pickpocketing. I don’t know how you handle it. Mycroft Holmes couldn’t pay me enough to put up with that day-in and day-out. Not unless it included a bonus cane and the ability to beat that little shit once a week.”

John pressed his left hand against his trousers as Anslow spoke, but didn’t drop his false smile. John held out the opposite hand once he’d finished his rant. Anslow took it, clearly startled by the sudden action.

“Sorry, I don’t believe I properly introduced myself. Captain John Watson, formerly of the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers. _An official rank._ I’m also a medical doctor, though at the moment my primary occupation is assistant consulting detective, when I’m not being a highly successful blogger and published author. I assure you, Mycroft does not pay me, nor has he ever, nor _will_ he ever. I honestly can’t think of anything better to do with my time than spend it with Sherlock Holmes, who is, by the way, my Sub and intended husband.” John flashed him a tight-lipped smile before pushing past him.

John continued down the hall before turning the corner on his right side. It didn’t sound like Anslow was following him, and those combat boots on this hard linoleum floor wasn’t a sound easily muffled, so he figured he was safe to pause before he got himself completely lost. Pulling out his mobile, he scrolled through his contacts until he came to “Armadillidium vulgare,” and pressed send.

He bit back a growl as it went to voice mail. Of course Mycroft didn’t bother to answer when _he_ wanted to speak with _him,_ for once. Ending the call, John dialed Sherlock’s number instead, but wasn’t surprised when he didn’t pick up either. Putting the mobile back in his pocket, he decided to just wing it and continued on down the hall. Eventually he’d either find someone who could train with him or he’d find another exit that wouldn’t take him past Anslow and ruin his big ‘piss off.’

Reaching another fork, John took the left hallway this time and continued on until he found a medical room, complete with medical personnel.

The woman in the room had light brown hair that was tied up in the type of bun that immediately told strangers that no nonsense would be permitted. She was wearing the stereotypical white lab coat, buttoned up, and blue scrub pants. Her outfit even included a clipboard. In other words, she looked like she’d just walked off an A&E drama.

“Can I help you?” she asked, her tone of voice indicating that she hoped the answer was no.

“Hello, sorry to bother you.” John held out his hand and gave the woman the smile that had earned him the title of Three Continents Watson. It worked its charm and the woman’s expression shifted from annoyed to at least willing to hear him out as she shook his hand. “John Watson. I seem to have gotten turned around. You wouldn’t happen to know where I can find the training rooms? And possibly also a trainer?”

“They’re back the way you came. Continue down the hall until you reach a fork and then take the left. You should see a large set of double doors at the end of the hallway. You can’t miss it. As for a trainer, you’ll have to speak to Anslow about that. I can call him for you, if you’d like.”

John sucked in a breath through his teeth. “I was afraid you were going to say that.”

“I take it you got on his bad side as well, then? What’s your offense? Sub? Omega? Profession too demeaning?”

“None of the above. Quite the opposite, actually,” John answered. The woman raised an eyebrow. “Doesn’t mean I can’t get angry.”

She studied him and it was a familiar enough process that John knew she was trying to decide if he was being honest or just saying what he thought she wanted to hear. Whether she believed him or not, her assessment apparently came up more positive than negative since she nodded and said, “Meredith Orsino.”

“Nice to meet you.”

“You said your name was Watson? Dr. Watson? I was informed that you might be a part of our team for a few months.”

“I’m just here for extra physical training. At the request of someone I can’t say no to, I might add.”

Meredith shrugged. “So I heard. But we’re a fairly private facility, and they thought I might be interested in knowing about another doctor that was going to be around. If nothing else, it’s good for when the unexpected occurs.”

“That it is.” John couldn’t help but think of all the completely unexpected, and oftentimes ridiculous, messes in which he and Sherlock found themselves.

The time he’d had to help Sherlock heal a twisted ankle he’d received while hopping a fence to get away from a group of angry nursing-home residents was particularly memorable. And by “help Sherlock heal,” he meant babysitting the idiotic genius to make certain he didn’t randomly decide to jump out of a second-story window or race an airplane or something else only Sherlock would ever think was a remotely good idea.

“Well, I’ve been here for two hours already,” Meredith said, glancing at her watch. She turned to set her clipboard on a nearby counter. “You want to head over to the cafeteria and grab some coffee? Maybe we can find someone other than Anslow to train you. Otherwise I might just have to do it myself.” She threw him a smile over her shoulder.

“Oh?”

“You’re not the only army doctor around here, _Doctor._ ” She removed her white coat to reveal not only a blue tank-top the same color as her pants, but also a set of muscles that would impress the most stringent of drill sergeants.

John whistled. “Impressive.”

“You’re not so bad yourself.” Meredith raked her eyes over him. John smiled to hide the wince that wanted to form instead. Apparently his Three Continents Watson charm was a little _too_ charming. He’d best start saving that for emergencies.

“Sorry, but I’ve got a-” How exactly did he describe a man that meant everything to him and whom made him feel as if his life hadn’t even started until he met him? Lover? Fiancée? Soulmate? None of the words seemed strong enough. Just…Sherlock. He had a Sherlock. “-I have someone already. He’s the reason I’m here, actually. Got to prove to his Head of Family that I’m up to par.”

“Bring him along. I’m certain a Dom like you can handle two Subs. Captain.” Meredith winked at him before gliding out the door.

John stared at her departing back, wondering how the hell it’d gone from him barely being tolerated to being invited to a threesome not half an hour later. He eyed the ratty old clothing he’d worn to train in, not having wanted to buy a new outfit just for this. There was nothing of particular interest. No bits hanging out or taut muscle lines. Just him in his ratty clothing.

Sherlock chose that moment to send him a text. Pulling the mobile out of his pocket, John followed Meredith, figuring he still needed her to introduce him to another trainer if nothing else.

_We need more tea. – SH_

John narrowed his eyes.

_What did you do to our tea? We had an entire tin this morning._

John had just bought it last night!

It was almost a full minute before the reply came through.

_Also out of pillows. – SH_

Giving a silent prayer for his poor pillow – which had no doubt died an unspeakable death - John slipped his mobile back into his pocket and tried not to think about whether or not Sherlock had started to experiment on the tea before or after he’d had some that morning. John narrowed his eyes. Had Sherlock drank any?

…That might explain the neon green shit he’d taken earlier.

“Coming?” Meredith called. John’s focus drew back into the real world and he realized he’d stopped in the middle of the hallway.

“Sorry,” John said, jogging to catch up.

“Something on your mind?”

Ruined personal objects. Questionable chemicals in formally edible items. Experimentation on people without their permission or knowledge. Again.

“Just the man I love.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, what'd you think? 
> 
> Don't worry, next chapter should be funnier (hopefully) & have more Sherlock. :)
> 
> Also, I've been waffling with writing some random side-stories that don't really fit into the plan that I have. So I might do a handful of those sometime as well.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry, haven't updated this in a while. ^^; Got distracted by Holmescest stuff & then by Daredevil...
> 
> Once again, a big thanks to my lovely beta, Megabat! <3

John barely prevented himself from leaning against the wall like a drunken raver as he dragged himself up the steps of 221B. He’d thought he was in good shape, but his jelly legs said he’d thought wrong. After coffee in the cafeteria, in which a very insistent, albeit regretful, John had explained to Meredith that Sherlock _really_ wouldn’t go for a threesome, she’d pushed him far beyond what he’d assumed was his limit and then mercilessly dropped him on his face. If John hadn’t known she was an Omega, he’d have thought she was an Alpha intent on staking her claim over territory. 

It was a bit of an old-school approach; not many people in modern society physically fought over things anymore. Certainly not for the right to claim dominion over semi-public spaces. That’s what _money_ was for. 

Muffled talking reached his ears as he stood at the peak of the mountain of steps. Had they always had so many steps? Surely not. His mad detective must have added a few while he was out. It was the only logical conclusion. Sherlock had needed to hide the bodies of the murdered pillows, and he’d, naturally, decided to do it in such a way as to make John’s return trip home as difficult as possible. 

John opened the door to find not Mrs. Hudson, nor Greg, nor even Mycroft – giving in and crawling back to beg baby brother’s forgiveness. No, Sherlock was sitting cross-legged on the floor and chatting it up with John’s fake Omega arse. Equidistant from them both was the skull, and together the three formed a triangle in the middle of the living room. Sherlock appeared to be trying to gauge their opinion on a particular blood splatter pattern and what it meant in relation to the axe found two houses away from the crime scene. _He’d placed photographs in front of them._

“I see you forgot the tea and pillows,” Sherlock said without looking at him. “I suppose I’ll have to do it myself.” He made it sound like John had forced him to walk up a hill, in the snow, with a boulder strapped to his back, while Andersen puttered behind receiving praise for his brilliant investigative work. A bit overdramatic in John’s opinion, considering all Sherlock did was whip out his mobile and shoot off a text to Mycroft demanding his brother provide him with said tea and pillows.

“Why are you having a conversation with my sex toy?” John couldn’t _quite_ believe the words coming out of his mouth and was expecting, or desperately hoping, to awaken any moment and find it all a terrible dream. 

Sherlock shrugged. “You weren’t here.”

“So you just went into my room, dug through my closet, and pulled out _that_ instead of, oh, anything else. Anything at all.” John waved at the rest of the flat.

“It seemed fitting.”

“The fake _arse_ seemed fitting? I put my dick in that!” John wasn’t exactly certain what point he was trying to make with that statement, just that he was making it . It wasn’t as if Sherlock would have any aversion to things John put his dick in.

“You could put your dick in _me,_ but instead you’ve chosen the arse as my replacement. I didn’t see any reason not to use it as a replacement for you, in turn.” Sherlock crossed his arms and glowered at the arse, which was once again acting as a stand-in for someone else. The muscles in Sherlock’s hand flexed as he squeezed his mobile.

John laughed. He couldn’t help it. He knew Sherlock was hurting underneath his anger, but the brilliant man was just so…not brilliant at times. This whole thing was Sherlock to a T. 

Sherlock jumped to his feet and got three steps towards the kitchen, and most likely his bedroom, before John froze him with a hard, “Stop.” His Sub fidgeted in place, one hand’s fingers twitching back and forth, curling and uncurling, while the other hand continued to grip the phone. 

“Back to the middle of the room. Remove your clothing and lie on your back.” 

Sherlock looked into his eyes. John looked right back. A silent conversation took place with John telling his Sub that he _was_ going to do this, and to bloody _trust_ him for a bloody moment. Sherlock told him that he didn’t want to; he was too fragile for trust. He needed time to rebuild his walls after his unexpected show of pain. John was no genius, but it didn’t take one to see Sherlock weighing the pros and cons of disobeying a direct order from his Dom – from _John_. 

Eventually their history together won out over the sting of John’s laughter, and Sherlock backtracked into the room. His gaze didn’t leave John as he stripped bare and laid himself flat on the floor. Curiosity returned to Sherlock’s expression as John sauntered over and dropped down on him. 

John pressed several kisses to Sherlock’s neck, and the collar, before he spoke. “Do you have any idea how bloody horny you make me _all the time?_ I need some way to relieve the tension and my hand just isn’t cutting it. That’s why I bought the arse, an _Omega_ arse. Because you’re my handsome Omega. The arse isn’t a replacement for you; it’s your _placeholder._ ” John’s tongue ran from Sherlock’s jawline up to his ear. Then he whispered, “I named it Sherlock.”

Sherlock’s lopsided grin told John that the detective knew exactly why he’d named it after him – so John didn’t feel _quite_ so pathetic when he yelled Sherlock’s name in the midst of orgasm and _not_ because he was a soppy romantic. Really.

He graced the corner of Sherlock’s smile with a kiss.

Arms wrapped around John as Sherlock pulled him in closer. John took it as an invitation to return his mouth to his Sub’s neck. Sherlock pressed his cheek into the carpet and let out a contented sigh.

“Sean, Ian, Evan, Ivan, Jack, Doe, and Hamish,” Sherlock whispered near John’s ear. “My dildos.” 

He growled and bit down hard on the spot just below the corner of Sherlock’s jaw. The other man groaned as John worked on making the largest, darkest, and all around most noticeable bruise possible without risking unwanted pain. Sherlock’s skin moved underneath his tongue as he soothed the darkening circle.

And then John moved to a patch of unattended skin just to the right and repeated the process. And then again. And again. He shifted onwards and downwards until Sherlock was making little noises and squeezing John’s arm every time his lips touched skin anew. 

Ending at the point where Sherlock’s shoulder met his arm, John paused to examine his work. His Sub had a nice smattering of love bites all along the left side of his neck before they hopped over his collar and trailed out across his shoulder. Sherlock’s eyes had drifted shut sometime during the claiming but now popped back open to examine John in turn. 

He gave his Sub a predatory glance before allowing his gaze to wander downwards. Sherlock’s nipples were puffed up into small brown hills that rose and fell with his uneven breathing, but that was the only visible evidence of John’s efforts, besides the marks themselves and the sheen of saliva on Sherlock’s skin. 

“It’s the medication; I am enjoying myself.” Sherlock gripped the sides of John’s thighs to prevent him from leaving.

John nodded. Sherlock’s body may not have been responding with obvious arousal, but a strong erection or a leaking arsehole weren’t the only ways to express pleasure. The way Sherlock arched into his touch when he reached out and pinched a nipple, or the way Sherlock all but melted when John kissed him on the lips was evidence enough for him.

“Do these fulfill your needs?” John’s hand tracked across the string of hickeys flowing along Sherlock’s shoulder. 

“Yes, John.” Sherlock tilted his head into John’s hand when he cupped his cheek.

“And if I were to cover every centimeter of you in them?” John asked. Sherlock’s preference list had listed marking as a ‘WILD TURN-ON,’ so he hadn’t been too worried about covering his Sub in lovingly-placed bruises without asking, but he figured he ought to give Sherlock a heads-up before he tasted his entire body.

“Yes, John. Please.” Sherlock’s fingers squeezed his legs. “Place them _everywhere._ ”

John locked eyes with Sherlock as he slowly descended and attached his mouth to Sherlock’s left nipple. 

&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&

Over an hour had passed by the time John had finished painting Sherlock’s skin with his love. His mouth was dry enough to drain the entire Atlantic Ocean if given half a chance. His lips were sore enough that he was semi-seriously contemplating forgoing solid food for a month in exchange for pouring blended beans and toast directly down his throat. If he’d been exhausted before, he was now weighing the merits of rolling onto his face and purposefully suffocating himself to get out of having to move. Granted, he’d been sitting on his legs for so long that he wasn’t certain he actually _could_ move.

Little else in John’s life had ever been so completely worth it. 

He’d rolled Sherlock onto his front once he’d finished decorating it, and now his Sub lay facing down with his head resting in his arms. John couldn’t tell if he was still awake, but he continued to run lazy fingers across his back nonetheless. Lying next to Sherlock with his head propped up on one elbow, John watched their skin touch in a hundred connected points as he circled the hickeys one-by-one, never allowing his fingers to lose the feel of Sherlock’s skin beneath them. Goosebumps rose up whenever he hit a particularly sensitive area.

“You’re not aroused,” Sherlock commented, his face still pressed into his arms so that his voice came out slightly muffled.

John ran a comforting hand through his curls. “Not for lack of trying.” He placed his hand on the back of Sherlock’s neck. “You were perfect. Good boy.”

A shaky exhale was the only response.

It was true. While John had been hard for a while - so unbearably hard - it had faded as the sensation of marking Sherlock, of touching his bare skin, of pressing his weight down upon his Sub, had grown stronger and stronger until it was just the singular idea of claiming Sherlock. Not sexually, but as a Dom claiming his Sub. An Alpha claiming his Omega. A man claiming his husband. 

John was too tired to rise from the living room floor, but there was a deep feeling of serene calmness filling him that he knew would keep him heady for at least a day and glowing for a good week. He hadn’t had his needs fulfilled this well in…well, ever. Even Carl, the Beta Dom with a Control Level so low that he’d been questioning whether or not he wasn’t a high level Sub, hadn’t given him half of what Sherlock had, simply by lying there and permitting John to work on him as he pleased.

He removed his hand from Sherlock’s neck and went back to massaging his scalp. “Do you still think the arse is your replacement?”

“No, John.” Sherlock turned his head to the right so that he was looking at him. “Recent evidence has proven that you would require a full doll for that task.” A smile broke on Sherlock’s face and then they were both giggling for what must have been a solid five minutes. Maybe an hour. John’s mind was buzzing from his needs fulfillment, and he couldn’t be bothered to care what day it was anymore, let alone how long he spent laughing with the man who destroyed his pillows and snuck worms into the sugar bowl.

John let out a contented sigh and rolled over onto his back. He rested a possessive hand over Sherlock’s right buttock, directly on top of one of his more mischievous hickeys. It’d be a tad tender for a day or so, making sitting somewhat awkward, but what wouldn’t be? John hadn’t been exaggerating earlier; he’d _covered_ Sherlock in marks. His chest, his stomach, his back, his sides, his biceps, his hips, his thighs, even a handful on his lower legs and inner forearms – all bore John’s name, written out in bruising kisses rather than letters. 

He closed his eyes, content to sleep right there on the living room floor. Which really said something about his current level of relaxation since he knew Sherlock hadn’t _actually_ caught that fist-sized spider he’d brought home and then promptly lost in the flat. John may not have been able to tell what film genre someone preferred by the state of their shoes, but he could tell that Sherlock hadn’t been “dusting under the sofa” when he’d come home unexpectedly last week. 

John was therefore expecting to wake up to a mutant spider crawling on his face, having a barely-awake panic attack, smacking his face against the furniture in an attempt to get it off, causing himself irreparable brain damage, and then dying. 

It wouldn’t be such a bad way to go. He could think of worse things than dying beside the man he loved. Of course, by then Sherlock would probably be off experimenting on the dead squirrel he’d found in the park the other day, and wouldn’t actually be anywhere near him. But John would be dying and not really in the state of mind to notice such details, so he allowed himself to dream. He just hoped Sherlock had enough sense in him to at least tell people that his dear Dom had died fighting an internationally wanted assassin. 

Then John thought about his Sub’s apparently uncontrollable need to correct everyone around him on everything, and gave that idea up for the simple hope that somebody at the funeral would stop Sherlock from telling his mother exactly how he’d died in gruesome detail – complete with blow-by-blow descriptions of how his body had been failing at every turn. 

Sleep was just about to overcome him and his worry over his dear mother’s sanity if she was ever left alone with Sherlock, when someone chose that moment to pound up the stairs. John only had the time to open his eyes and tilt his head back to look at the door when it flew open and Greg came strolling through. 

“I’ve got-” Greg froze as his brain processed the scene. His eyes shifted from Sherlock – spotted with dozens upon dozens of lovebites – to John – laying there in clear exhaustion while possessively gripping his Sub’s buttcheek – to the skull – John didn’t even want to guess what Greg thought about that in their current situation – to, finally, the fake arse. He stared at it. 

“I see I’ve come at a bad time. I’ll just…” Greg took a hesitant step backwards as if he thought they might not notice he was leaving if he moved slowly enough. “I’ll come back later, when you’re not…” he looked at the arse again. “…doing whatever it is you’re doing.” 

“Text me the details. I’ll meet you there.” Sherlock exhibited none of his usual grace as he rose up on his forearms. John had flashbacks of Irene Adler’s drug-induced delirium as Sherlock wobbled a little when he pushed himself to his knees. His new position gave Greg a _spectacular_ view of what John had done to his front, causing the other Dom to raise an eyebrow at John.

Deciding it was high-time for him to stop watching everything from flat on his back, John sat up and twisted around to face the door. He glided his hand up Sherlock’s spine, causing him to shiver, before resting it on back of his neck, just over the collar. Exerting only a minimal amount of pressure, he pushed Sherlock back down to the floor. It was a testament to Sherlock’s own needs fulfillment that he relaxed down on his stomach without complaint. 

“Good boy,” John murmured. Then louder, he said to Greg, “Give us a few hours. We both need some time to come back to earth.”

Greg raised his hands, palms up. “Take all the time you need.” Then he pivoted on his heel and was back through the door and down the stairs before Sherlock had a chance to sputter out a single protest. Sherlock didn’t – he remained pliant under John’s touch – but it was good thinking on Greg’s part nonetheless.

“Well that was mortifying. Now we’ll have to move.”

“Mmm. Glad I’m being included in your escape plans this time,” Sherlock said, turning his head to look at him. He gave John a lazy smile that said he wasn’t quite all there. 

John leaned forward to examine his dilated pupils. They weren’t _too_ blown; he could probably go on a case in a few hours without much difficulty so long as John was careful to do nothing else that might push him deeper into his zone. Which would be fairly simple seeing as John was moments away from passing out while still sitting upright and Sherlock didn’t look much better off. 

Yawning, John lowered himself back down to the spider’s hunting ground and curled himself around his Sub. He listened to Sherlock’s breathing for as long as his exhaustion would allow before he drifted off to sleep.

&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&

John had not woken up to a vicious arachnid attacking his face, but he had gotten the dubious pleasure of opening his eyes to find Sherlock leaning over him and _staring._ Just staring at him upside-down as he squatted next to John’s head. John had told him “Good morning to you too, Edward,” but his genius hadn’t understood his joke. How surprising.

Forty minutes later found Sherlock darting out of the cab that had just taken them to the latest crime scene, while John stayed behind to pay the man. He grumbled to himself as he forked over his cash and slipped out the door to follow. His shoulder twinged as he went to shut the door.

“Damn,” John muttered, rubbing at the area around his scar. Note to self: sleeping on the floor was a bad idea. And that wasn’t taking into consideration how shitty he felt going on a case with only a few hours since he’d trained with Meredith.

He couldn’t have looked younger than a hundred and fifty as he hobbled over to where Sherlock was already busy examining a nude woman with his pocket magnifying glass. John would guess she was late forties/early fifties judging by the lines on her face, obviously an Alpha, and probably strangled to death if the ligature marks around her neck were anything to go on. John looked around to find several pairs of curious eyes shifting from Sherlock’s openly-displayed collar, to the possessive hickeys trailing off into his coat, to the blue scarf peeking out of John’s jacket pocket, and then to John himself. A polite smile was the only response given to any of the silent questions sent his way.

“How was your training?” Sherlock asked, bending over to examine the woman’s cock. His bell jingled as he shifted upwards to scour her pubic hair for clues. 

John caught Sally making a disgusted face out of the corner of his eye. He agreed, but sent her a challenging look nonetheless. She huffed and stomped over to the corner of the room to stand near Anne Hirst and together the two women bemoaned having to work with “the Freak” in hushed voices that did nothing to hide their words. 

“That would depend on why you’re asking,” John said carefully, turning back to Sherlock. He could count on one hand how many times the other man had asked him about his day in the entire time he’d known the Sub, and not a single instance had ever had anything to do with actually wanting to know about how his day had gone. More likely he wanted to know how John was fairing after whatever he’d slipped him that morning so that he could catalog the side-effects in some spreadsheet or hidden journal. 

“Curiosity.”

“ _Right_. Remind me when we get home to punish you for the stunt you pulled with the tea.” John would remember, of course, but he figured if Sherlock was going to experiment on him, he might as well experiment with whether or not his Sub would obey or try to wriggle out of a punishment by conveniently “forgetting” about it. 

“Yes John,” Sherlock agreed almost immediately. And then – “The substance isn’t harmful.” Sherlock looked up from the victim to give him what must have been one of the best sad puppy faces in the history of sad puppy faces. Too bad John knew he was actually a bloody wolf in disguise . 

“The chair should be a suitable punishment, I think. Full dark.” John got a warm and tingly feeling from watching his Sub’s face shift from puppy to frowning to contemplative – no doubt wondering whether or not he could somehow get out of it – to finally accepting. Though, the last was only after John raised a pointed eyebrow. 

“Yes John.” Sherlock’s sad puppy face wasn’t false this time as he went back to examining the body. 

He _hated_ “the chair,” which didn’t always literally involve a chair. When it did, John tied Sherlock to it and then left him in boredom for several hours with the strict instructions not to make a sound. John always made it a point to go about his business and ignore his Sub when he was in the chair. Except for when Sherlock looked ready to doze off or slip into his Mind Palace. Then John made it a point to pester him. 

When Sherlock was extra naughty, John would take away his senses one by one, until they reached “full dark.” By that time, his Sub would be wearing a holed ball gag, a blindfold, earplugs, a nose clip and enough bindings to prevent him from shifting even a centimeter. John would refrain from giving him any sign that he was still in the flat just for added effect. They usually did full dark on the bed rather than the chair. The lack of anything to do, or anything to see or hear or smell or just interact with in general drove Sherlock absolutely mad. He always clung to John afterwards and refused to let him leave. 

“The chair?” Sally said, raising an eyebrow. “Is that like sending him to the corner?” Her lips curled up into a smile that was far too amused. 

John might have found it amusing himself if it’d come from anyone but Sally. As it was, he refused to answer while Sherlock merely rolled his eyes and continued on examining the body. Sally seemed to take that as a “yes” and her smiled widened even more.

Sherlock rose to his feet with a fluid grace that John couldn’t help but love. He snapped off his gloves and tossed them towards a startled Greg, who’d just walked through the door. “You’re looking for a middle-aged woman with blond hair who carries a cane in her right hand. Most likely close to the victim, but as a long-standing rival with occasional sexual benefits rather than a lover or friend. Why someone would have sex with someone they clearly hate, you’ll have to ask Wellby.” Sherlock waved towards one of the officers standing outside the police tape.

“That sounds like the woman who reported her death in the first place,” Greg said, darting his eyes between the three of them. Sally still looked pleased with herself while John knew he had to be practically vibrating with an aura that screamed “mind your own business.” 

“Why would she do that?” John asked.

“She has cancer. It’s terminal, so she doesn’t care whether or not she gets caught, but she’s also an avid gambler, so she couldn’t just turn herself in without seeing if she could beat the system. Before you ask your inane questions, it’s obvious from the shirt-” he pointed towards a shirt that had been thrown into a nearby corner “-the thread on the carpet-” he made a haphazard gesture towards the carpet, indicating something only he could see “-and the flowers.”

“Flowers?” Greg glanced around the room.

“Yes, the blue flowers that were sitting on the table when we first entered the house. Didn’t you notice?”

“Well, yeah, I _noticed_. Not exactly what I’d consider a clue right off the bat, though. Lots of people have flowers.” Greg shrugged.

Sherlock sighed and looked away, as if Greg was too dull to even warrant a glance in his direction.

John reached up and wrapped his fingers around Sherlock’s bell. Tugging gently, he pulled his Sub down for a kiss. 

“Brilliant. As always,” John murmured when they parted. “Shall we get out of here?”

“Yes John.”

“Before you go,” Greg said with a mischievous hint to his voice that instantly put John on guard, “when can I meet him?” 

“Meet who?” Sherlock’s eyebrows furrowed and his eyes darted from side-to-side as he visibly shifted through everyone they knew that Greg might want to meet.

John shook his head. “No.”

“No?” Greg asked.

“Absolutely not. We are not doing this here.”

“So we could do it somewhere else then?” 

John had to admit that he’d walked right into that one. Still, it didn’t mean he had to take the shot lying down when he had ammo of his own. He pointed a finger at Greg. “Umbrella.”

Sherlock’s eyes widened as he understood. He opened his mouth, to no doubt blurt out the secret sex life of John Watson and the fake arse, but John grabbed him by the lapels and pulled him in for another kiss before he could make him the laughing stock of Scotland Yard. Sherlock was surprised, but quickly relaxed into his touch. His stupid genius didn’t attempt to say anything when they separated for the second time. Small miracles.

“Chinese? You’re eating tonight,” John said. It came out as more an order than a statement, which was fine with him since Sherlock could always do with some fattening up. 

Sherlock sighed his ‘why must I love someone so dull and normal’ sigh, but agreed nonetheless. “Yes John.”

John nodded his goodbye to Greg and together they headed out towards the street.

“You never answered my question,” Sherlock said, raising an arm to hail a cab.

“Hmm?” 

“About your training.”

“Oh, it was fine. Horrible,” John added, rolling his sore shoulders, “But fine.”

A corner of Sherlock’s mouth lifted up. “What did you think of Meredith’s proposal?”

John’s brows knitted together. “Proposal?”

“For the threesome,” Sherlock clarified. John was saved from having to answer right then as a black cab pulled up in front of them.

Once inside, John asked, “How could you have possibly known about the threesome?”

Sherlock stared out the window, cataloguing everything in his sight as they drove past. “Simple really. I already knew she found me attractive from the handful of times we’d interacted and I knew she would find you irresistible once she spent some time with you. She’s a determined woman with no little amount of intellect and would quickly realize the only way to have either of us is to have us together. Ergo, threesome.”

“And how did you know she’d find me irresistible?” John asked, his voice taking on a teasing quality.

“I’ll leave you to your deductions,” Sherlock said, refusing to answer.

John smiled.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, TBH, this is not a chapter I'm overly fond of - it feels very mushy to me. Maybe you guys might like that, though. Should get back on track the next chapter. I just felt that I should stop messing with it & just _update_ so people have _something_ to read.


End file.
